Life in the Death Zone
by Shannon A. Bernstein
Summary: Mount Everest - it's considered the greatest prize in all of ice climbing, as well as the greatest challenge. Ivan Braginsky, Feliciano Vargas, and Ludwig Beilschmidt will follow expedition guide Alfred F. Jones and expedition medic Francis Bonnefoy up the mountain, hopefully to the summit. Set in 1996, a perilous year on the mountain. GerIta and RusAme.
1. Chapter 1: Arrival in Kathmandu

**Hey, everyone! This is the first fan fiction I have EVER written. Ludwig Beilschmidt, Feliciano Vargas, Alfred F. Jones, Ivan Braginsky and Francis Bonnefoy tackle Mt. Everest, the highest mountain in the world. **

**Pairings will be: GerIta, RusAme (sorry, France).**

** Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

_Finally_, he thought, anticipation growing inside him. He stood, his legs feeling stiff from the long flight. Pulling on his backpack, the young man stepped into the aisle of the plane and headed for the exit.

"Enjoy your stay in Kathmandu," the stewardess chirped as he exited.

Feliciano Vargas gave her a sleepy smile in return. He had nodded off sometime after the plane had taken off from its layover in New Delhi. "Thank you," he replied.

He stepped into the terminal, eyes scanning the bustling airport in the hopes of finding Alfred Jones, the expedition leader, who said he'd be waiting for the group. Taking a few tentative steps forward, he felt a little lost. But out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a man with blonde hair that nearly fell across bright blue eyes rimmed in glasses with silver frames. He was wearing a navy blue t-shirt with a white mountain logo and text that read "Summit Adventures." That must be Alfred! Feliciano breathed a sigh of relief and headed over to his guide. Seated next to him was a stocky man with dark skin, a wide face, and faint traces of black facial hair around his nose and mouth. He had a tangled mess of hair so dark brown it was nearly black, and narrow glinting eyes to match. This must be the expedition's Sherpa – a local guide and porter who would accompany them on their trek.

"Hello, are you Alfred?" the Italian said.

"Yes, you must be here for the Everest expedition, right?" the man responded, pushing his glasses further up his nose.

"Yes, I'm - "

Feliciano had begun to introduce himself but Alfred cut him off. "Wait, let me guess. I like guessing," the American said brightly. His eyes moved across a sheet of paper he held in his hands. "Judging by your accent, I'd say you're…Feliciano Vargas?"

"_Si_!" the Italian replied. He'd already decided he liked the expedition leader.

"Well, great to meet you, Feliciano." Alfred extended his hand and the Italian shook it. "And this is Lopsang. He's going to be our head Sherpa."

"Hello," Lopsang said in a thick, strange accent. Feliciano smiled back at him.

Lopsang, Alfred and Feliciano waited for the others to arrive. As the trio's thoughts began to drift, a quiet voice with a lilting Russian accent came out of nowhere. "Am I in the right place?"

"Oh, you must be Ivan Braginsky," Alfred said.

"_Da_," Ivan said. Feliciano, eager to meet another member of the expedition, spun around to find himself face to face with a big-boned Russian who absolutely towered over the little Italian. Despite Ivan's gentle face and sweet smile, Feliciano was taken aback by the man with the broad shoulders and chest, and an odd pair of violet eyes. He drew his breath in sharply and shifted a little further back into his seat. Now that he thought about it, Feliciano was sure he'd seen Ivan seated a few rows ahead of him on the plane. He recognized the short, pale blonde hair, the paler-still skin, and the pinkish-white scarf wrapped around Ivan's neck.

* * *

Ludwig Beilschmidt tensed as the jet roared to earth. He hated flying. He hated the bustle and hassle of security, hated the hot, stuffy interior of an airplane, and hated the crying children parents couldn't bother to quiet. But most of all, he hated the lurking possibility that his bags would not arrive with him. Twice during previous climbing expeditions, the airline had lost his suitcase stuffed with expensive climbing equipment. Ludwig had had to buy new equipment in an unfamiliar city, only to have his bags arrive at his home in Berlin a few weeks after he returned. He grumbled as the plane bounced.

When the captain turned off the "fasten seatbelts" sign, Ludwig stood immediately and walked stiffly and tiredly into the aisle. The flight from Berlin had lasted almost 21 hours, but the German had not been able to sleep. As he stepped into the terminal, an odd sense of calm settled over him. _Back in Kathmandu_, he thought, allowing himself a small smile. He'd been here three years ago when he summited Cho Oyu, the sixth highest mountain in the world, which was situated only 20 kilometers from Everest. For that entire expedition, he'd gazed upon the adjacent peak, dreaming of the day when he'd climb it. And that day was today.

It didn't take Ludwig long to find the rest of the group. A slightly tanned blonde smiled and greeted him. "And that would make you Ludwig, right?"

"It would," he replied. "Nice to meet you, Alfred." Ludwig's eyes scanned the group. The athletic American and the huge, strong-looking man seated to Alfred's right looked capable enough. His ice-blue eyes halted on the man to Alfred's left. His auburn hair shone softly and had one random curl sticking up out of the side of his head. Ludwig, whose friends had "diagnosed" him with OCD, fought back the urge to try to press that curl back into place. The boy – er, _man_ – had a pair of bright copper-brown eyes that swept the airport inquisitively, never focusing long on one thing before they moved on. The tight olive-green shirt he wore accented his tanned skin. Despite the kid's lean muscle, he looked a little too young and too small to be attempting the world's highest peak, Ludwig thought.

"Now we're just waiting on one more," Alfred broke the silence. Somehow he knew the Frenchman would be a bit late. Maybe he was ordering coffee and chatting up the barista, leaving the four of them to sit around and wait for him. Or maybe his flight from Paris just hadn't arrived yet. _Nah_, Alfred thought.

As if to answer his thoughts, a man with blonde hair that reached past his ears approached the group. His left hand gripped a paper Starbucks cup. Alfred had come to anticipate what the Frenchman would do. Not much shocked Alfred about that man anymore.

"This American coffee, it's too weak, no?" Francis announced before even bothering to introduce himself. "Why do you drink it, Alfred?"

"Oh, everyone, meet Francis Bonnefoy," Alfred said dryly as a man with blonde hair that reached past his ears approached the group, waving. "He's the expedition medic."

"_Bonjour, tout le monde_," Francis greeted the four men. "Ah, Alfred, this looks like an interesting group, no?" The American shrugged wryly. After having worked with Francis on various expeditions for almost two years now, he had gotten used to the antics of his Parisian friend – or _ami_, as Francis would say. "Well, Alfred, aren't you going to introduce me to everyone?"

"Okay, this is Ludwig," Francis shook the German's hand, "and Ivan," more handshakes, "and this is Feliciano."

"Ah, an Italian _cher_, no?" Francis said, grinning, as he took Feliciano's hand in his own, holding onto it a little longer than the others.

"You can call me Feli if you want," the Italian said with a joyful, open-mouthed smile. "Feliciano's a bit of a mouthful."

"Oh, no, you have a beautiful name, and I will not shorten it," Francis said.

"O-oh, _grazi_," Feliciano replied, his cheeks growing a little pink. Alfred rolled his eyes and suppressed a chuckle. The Frenchman was eyeing Feliciano, obviously the youngest of the expedition members, as though he was a little piece of meat. And the Italian just stood there, wearing the same huge grin with which he had greeted Alfred and the others. Apparently, he was oblivious. Out of the corner of his eye, Alfred caught Ivan's gaze. He turned and locked eyes with the Russian, who jerked his head at Francis and Feliciano and offered a small smile. Smiling back, Alfred thought it was as though Ivan was reading his mind.

* * *

Ivan Braginsky always thought that he had grown used to the hustle and bustle of big cities after having lived in Moscow all his life. But as the group threaded its way through Kathmandu, he realized the Nepalese capital was nothing like his hometown. The street was jammed with the strangest assortment of people, vehicles and animals imaginable. Children, screaming and yelling, darted in and out of adults and jostled them on their way past. In return, the adults grumbled a little and shook their heads knowingly, obviously used to having to avoid stepping on the little ones as they made their way home from work and to the markets and shops lining the streets. Cars honked at pedestrians and at buses, which attempted to thread their way through the mess as people clung to the rails to hitch a ride. Somewhere in the distance, a cow mooed. Ivan wrinkled his nose at the thought of cattle plodding through Red Square before the Kremlin and Saint Basil's Cathedral. The air was hot and muggy, thick with moisture as if from recent rain. A leggy teenager bumped into Ivan. "_Hey, watch it_!" he yelled in Russian before realizing the boy neither spoke Russian nor cared what he had to say. He continued to follow Alfred with an irritated murmur of "_kolkolkol_," low under his breath.

A dull headache throbbed at Ivan's temples. No, the altitude wasn't bothering him – if it was, there would be a problem, as they hadn't even started their ascent yet. It was the noise – and the heat. Russia was much cooler than this, even in mid-March. That was probably what was annoying him. He unbuttoned his jacket and slung it over his arm. He loosened the scarf around his neck, but despite the sweat that beaded on his forehead, he didn't take it off. A street vendor shouted at some nearby children, and they shouted back. He hated it when people raised their voices. In those shouts, he heard the echoes of his father's voice, booming so to fill up the entire room: _"Ivan, you're no good. Ivan, you're worthless. Ivan, you're a – "_

"Here we are, guys!" Alfred said, waving them toward the hotel with his hand. The American's voice banished thoughts of Vladimir in an instant. Ivan had winced instinctively at the memories of his father, but glanced up to take a look at the hotel. The earthy red and tan building was built in American style, stacked geometrically up over the parking lot. They headed into the lobby and checked in, gathering around Alfred. "Okay, everyone," Alfred announced. "Ludwig, you'll be rooming with…Feliciano. Ivan, you're with me. Francis, you and Lopsang. Okay?" He passed out room keys and itineraries. "Meet down here in an hour for dinner. I'm sure you're all hungry!"

"I am!" Feliciano piped up, grinning. "I sure could go for some pasta…"

"Good, because I was actually planning on taking you all to a fantastic Italian restaurant Francis and I discovered the last time we were in Kathmandu. It's really…well, you'll love it!" Alfred said. "All right, see you soon."

The six departed in different directions. Ivan pulled his scarf over his mouth as he followed Alfred, his lips curving into a smile. He liked how warm and charismatic the American was…and cute, too. He felt his cheeks get a little hot. Alfred reached their room first. He slid the key card into the door and turned to face the Russian, pushing the door open. Ivan met those bright blue eyes with his purple ones.

* * *

That morning, the team woke at 5:00 a.m. for breakfast so they could visit Tengboche temple to pray before trekking to Lobuche. Ludwig was jolted awake by the incessant _honk!_ of the alarm and reached over to the nightstand, feeling around for the "off" button. Once the clock's buzzing had ceased, he swung his legs over the side of his bed and rubbed his eyes, then got up. Before getting dressed, Ludwig fetched the carafe from the coffee maker, filled it with water, poured the coffee grounds into the filter, and pressed "on." In the bathroom, he pulled on a light pair of pants, a shirt, and a jacket over it. On second thought, he stuffed the jacket into his pack. It would be another warm day, but the air would cool as they ascended. He smoothed his hair back with a touch of gel and returned for the coffee.

To his surprise, Feliciano had not moved from his bed. Ludwig could see the auburn curl poking out from under the covers. "Hey, um, Feliciano, you should get up," he said, quietly at first.

The Italian stirred and rolled over. "But I don't want to," he mumbled.

"Yes, but we have to get going soon." Ludwig shook his head. He didn't mind early mornings. He'd been on enough climbing expeditions to know that they were the norm, and that to sleep past 6:00 was a blessing. Besides, he normally woke at 5:15 at home so he could go to the gym before heading to the law firm he and his brother ran together.

"_Si_, but I'm tired."

The German chuckled dryly. "_Feliciano!_" he said, more sharply and loudly this time. "You think you're tired now? Wait and see how tired you are when we're at Camp Four, in the death zone, breathing out of oxygen tanks!" The Italian sat up, letting the sheets fall away from his body, to glance back at Ludwig. He smiled, his half-closed brown eyes still bright. Ludwig's voice softened a little again. "So we should get moving."

Feliciano laughed freely. "Oh, Ludwig, you sound so serious! Like a….like a military officer!" Ludwig just rolled his eyes.

The Italian finally got up and headed to the bathroom. Ludwig poured the coffee he'd made equally into two provided paper cups and sipped at the hot liquid. Feliciano returned fully dressed. "Here," Ludwig said, pushing the other cup toward the Italian. "I figured you'd want some…"

"_Grazie!_ Or how do you say in German…_danke_, right?"

"_Ja,_ that's right," Ludwig replied, and smiled for the first time that morning.

The two gathered their things and prepared to meet the rest of the team. As Ludwig shouldered his backpack, he noticed Feliciano unwrapping a brand-new pair of climbing boots. The German huffed audibly and wondered if his new climbing mate had any idea what he was doing. "Those are new?" he said, a little surprised.

"Yeah, why?"

"You don't…you need more time to break those in before you use them on _Everest_!"

Feliciano smiled blissfully. "My crampons* are new, too. Is that a problem?"

Ludwig sighed and shook his head again. A dark expression fell across his face. He was a bit concerned for the little Italian. It seemed he was unaware of what he had gotten himself into.

After a rushed breakfast, the team trudged sleepily from the hotel and made the walk to the temple. Alfred and Francis filed in first, their expressions turning somber and reflective as soon as they entered the doors. They spun the prayer wheels skillfully, and it made sense. Ludwig knew Alfred had summited Everest twice, and Francis three times, so they knew the customs. Ivan, who had been watching closely, followed suit. Ludwig made his way in after the Russian. A feeling of peace and reverence washed over him. He spun the prayer wheel and turned to kneel with the others. He glanced back to see Feliciano and Lopsang the Sherpa standing together, heads bent toward each other, whispering. Lopsang jerked his thumb at the prayer wheel and the Italian gave him a confused smile. Clearly, the Italian had never before entered a Buddhist temple.

But Ludwig had. He'd been here once before, in fact. It was where all mountaineers came before departing on their Everest expedition to pray for a safe journey, no matter their religion. He'd been here a few years ago before his ascent of Cho Oyu. But it felt…different this time, somehow. It felt more sacred and more special now that he was finally tackling Mt. Everest.

Feliciano kneeled next to Ludwig. He glanced at the German with the same huge grin he always wore, as necessary to him as a shirt or pants. "Hey, Ludw - " he started to offer.

"Shh, Feli!" Ludwig said at a sharp whisper, not noticing he was using the shortened version of Feliciano's name. He wanted to smack the little Italian upside his auburn-haired head (gently, of course) for disturbing the sanctity of a place like this. But as he glanced into those bright brown eyes, he just couldn't. Instead, Ludwig shot the boy his best icy glare.

Feliciano must have thought Ludwig was being facetious, because he bit his lip to suppress a chuckle. Ludwig found himself smiling in spite of himself. In a way, he admired Feliciano. Even in the temple that signaled the official beginning of the team's Everest journey, a place that was meant to be holy and peaceful, the Italian was as happy and energetic as ever. A little naïve when it came to Nepalese customs and…well, how serious of an undertaking Everest was as a whole, maybe. But that Feliciano was always happy and energetic, no one could doubt. Ludwig bowed his head, trying to give off the impression that he was deep in prayer and reflection, but really he was trying to hide his smile from the little Italian at his side. _Best not to encourage him_, the German thought, suppressing a laugh of his own.

* * *

*** Author's Note: For anyone who doesn't know, crampons are a pair of metal spikes that are attached to climbing boots. The spikes are meant to bite into ice. When climbers are traversing a vertical ice wall, a pair of crampons will allow a climber to "walk" up the wall, keeping them from falling off. However, they are not very useful when traversing rocky terrain, so climbers will have to take them on and off over the course of an ascent.**

**Thanks SO MUCH for reading, and please review!**


	2. Chapter 2: Trek to Lobuche

**Here's Chapter Two! Hope you enjoy!**

**Keep in mind this is set in 1996, so that's why I'm talking about film cameras rather than digital cameras. :D**

* * *

He had a good feeling about this group.

As Alfred F. Jones dressed for the day of trekking ahead of him, he breathed deeply, satisfied, and felt the air rush through his lungs. Yes, he felt very confident about this ascent. All three of the men paying him to lead them to the summit of Everest had summited fourteeners* before, which was more than he could say about some of the numbskulls who had signed up for his expeditions in the past. He smiled at the soft reddish-yellow glow of the sun as it rose over the Himalayas that morning, watching as it painted the Nepalese sky in shades of yellow and orange and crimson. Nothing would go wrong this year.

The team ate another rushed breakfast and Alfred led them on the winding trail to Lobuche, the small village where they'd spend a night or two before finally heading toward Base Camp. "Hey guys, how's everybody doing today?" he asked as he turned his head back toward the group of five. He parted his lips in a wide grin, fully aware of the charismatic quality of his smile. The expedition members had remained mostly silent over breakfast, trying to banish their sleepiness over cups of coffee and slightly cold eggs. Now that they had started down the trail, they were at last showing signs of life.

"I'm doing well," Ivan said first, offering Alfred a peaceful, close-lipped smile in return. The smile reached all the way to his wide purple eyes, which illuminated and seemed to sparkle in the rising sun. Suddenly, a strange warmth spread over Alfred in spite of the cool morning air that had encouraged him to put on his jacket on his way from the hotel. He felt the steady pounding of his heart speed up a little bit. Sighing to himself, he reached around to the side of his backpack and withdrew a water bottle from its pocket. He unscrewed the top and lifted the bottle to his lips, sipping deeply. _I _knew _I shouldn't have had that damn second cup of coffee_, he thought. _Makes me damn jittery. Exactly what I need at these altitudes. _

It was Feliciano who spoke up next. "Still tired, but all right," he offered. As if to prove his point, he yawned and stretched his arms.

"Great! Ludwig? How about you?" Alfred said.

"_Awake,_" the German responded, and locked eyes with Feliciano. The Italian smiled and nudged Ludwig playfully in the side. The serious, unmoving expression on Ludwig's face brightened slightly, just enough to be noticeable. His lips started to curve upward, but he soon pulled his eyes away and refocused them on the soaring Himalayas.

Feliciano's eyes followed Ludwig's gaze. "Wow!" he breathed and pulled off his backpack, holding it against his body as he fished inside its depths. He withdrew a bulky camera bag, which he unzipped to reveal a SLR camera, a sleek yet unwieldy piece of equipment with a hulking detachable lens. It made Alfred's point-and-shoot film camera look like a toy. The American watched Feliciano fiddle with the settings for a moment before pressing furiously on the clicker, snapping photos of the skyline carved out by the mountains ahead. He took three shots, paused, pressed a few more buttons, and continued, taking photos. The entire team had halted around the Italian. "Come _on_, Feli," Ludwig said. "The mountains are not going anywhere. You can take more later."

"But the sunrise!" Feliciano protested joyfully. Ludwig shrugged, apparently in defeat, and waited for another moment until Feliciano put his camera away again. Alfred knew the Italian was the least experienced climber of the group. But he thought with a smile that his energy and persistence would keep him going on the mountain.

Feliciano allowed the group to walk in silence for only about fifteen minutes. "So, what's the highest peak you all have climbed?"

"Everest," Alfred and Francis said, almost in unison. "Hey, I said it first," Alfred asserted to the Frenchman, who shrugged and nodded.

"Of course you did," he said to Alfred.

"Ludwig?" Feliciano asked.

"That would be Cho Oyu," said the German, pointing to the mountain adjacent to Everest. Feliciano lifted his eyebrows and snapped a couple photographs of Cho Oyu. This time, he left his camera hanging around his neck, ready for action.

"Ivan, you?"

* * *

Ivan didn't hear what Feliciano had asked him. He wasn't listening. He was lost in Alfred's eyes. They were deep blue like the ocean. Ivan could see his own reflection mirrored back at him, and he imagined drifting peacefully across the ocean of Alfred's eyes, letting their depths carry him away, banishing his worries.

He couldn't quite explain what he felt for the American. It had come on so suddenly, the fluttering in his stomach, the sheepish smile he tried to hide with his scarf. Alfred had what he lacked: confidence bordering on cockiness that Ivan imagined the knifelike criticisms of a thousand men could not shatter. Ivan could assure himself of his own confidence only when he was ascending a mountain, hauling himself up ice faces with ease past those half his size. Feliciano, Ivan thought, was happy because he cared about everything. But Alfred was happy because it seemed he didn't care much at all.

But why would a man like Alfred want to be with someone like _him?_ Ivan's smile faded as he considered this. _Everyone_ liked Alfred, so he had plenty to choose from. Even if the American could return Ivan's feelings, would it even matter? What would happen if the feelings _were_ mutual? The Russian's mind wandered to what had happened in the past. He shuddered involuntarily as the memories flooded his mind…

_Ivan smiled against the other boy's lips. He pulled away and met a pair of green eyes with his purple ones. Those green eyes were filled to the brim with blissful surrender. He paused for a moment to take in the shape of the pale face just inches away from his own. Leaning in, he again kissed the boy named Toris Laurinaitis. _

_His tongue ran along the pair of lips pressed against his, and Toris opened his mouth. Their tongues brushed, lightly at first. Ivan explored the inside of the Lithuanian's mouth, feeling along its ridges, and he groaned a little in pleasure. Toris pressed his hips flush against Ivan's as he pushed back with his tongue. The Russian felt his member pulse and grow hot. Without thinking, he pushed Toris to the bed and lowered himself over the smaller boy, placing his knees on either side of the Lithuanian's hips. _

_Toris gave Ivan a nervous smile. Ivan ran his fingers through the other boy's brown hair and worked his mouth down along the Lithuanian's jaw line and then back up to that perfect pair of lips. Feeling the shudders course through the body beneath his, Ivan bit down gently on Toris' lower lip. In response, the other boy gave a little squeak. Ivan bit harder the next time. Toris moaned loudly. He met Ivan's eyes with his own before dropping his gaze to the floor. His cheeks flushed bright pink. _

_But that only fueled Ivan's desire. He found Toris' awkward embarrassment to be…cute. He kissed the other boy again. His tongue ran along the indents he'd made in the other pair of lips before it slipped into the Lithuanian's mouth. Their tongues clashed roughly this time. "Mmm, Toris," he mumbled as he lowered his own body until he was lying on top of the smaller boy. Ivan's hand reached between their bodies and rubbed the Lithuanian through his jeans, feeling his hardness beneath his palm. _

"_Ivan," Toris interrupted quietly. "I-I've never, ah…done this before." _

"_Neither have I," the Russian said with a lustful smirk. "At least not with another boy." How funny was it – in all his seventeen years, he finally had a boy in his bed, right where he wanted him! A year ago, he'd tried having sex with a girl in a desperate last-ditch attempt to convince himself he did _not _like men, but it hadn't exactly worked out. He'd felt nothing. He hadn't wanted her. He'd felt no desire for her. But now…it was a different story! Oh, how he wanted the soft-spoken, tender-hearted Toris! _

_Ivan's hands slid across Toris' hips and pulled them slowly up toward his own. The pair of hesitant green eyes suddenly glimmered with desire. The Lithuanian pushed back up against Ivan's body, their erections rubbing together. "Nngh -" Ivan bit his own lip to stop himself from making a desperate noise. Toris only pushed back harder, moving faster, their bodies rocking back and forth. Oh, this felt so right. Bending to kiss the Lithuanian again, Ivan heard a faint _click! _in the distance._

"_Did you hear something?" he asked, halting a moment. His eyes probed the room in search of an object that had perhaps tumbled from his dresser._

"_Hear what?" Toris replied. "I didn't hear _anything." _His fingers wound through Ivan's pale blonde hair and pulled the Russian's face down to his own, kissing him hard. _

"_Okay," Ivan whispered and again massaged Toris' hardness with his open palm. _

"_I-Ivan, please, can we just…" Toris' voice was tense and pleading._

"Da." _He gave Toris an easy, open-mouthed smile, which apparently the Lithuanian took as an invitation, catching Ivan's mouth with his own and toying with the Russian's tongue. Ivan's fingers found the button to Toris' jeans and undid it, next tugging hurriedly at the zipper. With one hand running under Toris' shirt, fingertips brushing the smooth skin beneath, he started to pull the jeans away from the smaller boy's body…_

_The door flew open. Ivan lifted his head. Maybe the window in the room across the hall was open, and a gust of wind had pushed the door ajar. But then, the unmistakable thick scent of vodka permeated the air. Ivan flinched involuntarily, knowing what was coming. Right on cue, his father Vladimir's face appeared in the doorway. His brown eyes, so dark in color they were nearly black, were surrounded by pronounced bright red veins and rimmed in dark circles. Rage was written onto his ruddy facial features. "Ivan Braginsky, what the fuck is this?" _

_Toris squirmed underneath him at the gruff, angry voice and accidentally jerked his hips upward into Ivan. Ivan's neglected erection throbbed in response. Oh, God, why? They had been so close! The Russian suppressed a whimper. "I-I…we were -" he started to say._

"_Fucking faggot," his father snarled and pulled Ivan off Toris, dropping him on his feet beside the bed. There was an audible _crack! _as Vladimir's open palm met Ivan's face. He then turned his menacing dark eyes to the Lithuanian, who lay frozen with shock on Ivan's bed. "What do we have here? Is this your little boyfriend? Ah, he looks like a little fag, too." _

"_You shut up about Toris!" Ivan shouted. His father slapped him again, this time across the nose. He staggered back a few steps. His nose stung. His eyes watered. _

"_Don't you talk to me like that!" Vladimir's hand shot out and locked onto the Lithuanian's arm, dragging him to his feet as well. Toris pulled his jeans back up around his hips and zipped the zipper with trembling fingers, blushing so deeply the redness in his face seemed to spread all the way to the corners of his nose. "You…" Ivan's father aimed his index finger in Toris' face, "…stay the fuck away from my son." _

"_B-b-but Mr. Braginsky…" Toris stammered in a heartbreakingly tremulous voice. Vladimir didn't give him the chance to finish. He grabbed both the Lithuanian's arms and threw him to the ground. Toris whimpered loudly. Ivan saw those wide green eyes fill with tears. He balled his hands into fists, tensing with the overwhelming desire to drive one of those fists into his father's face. _

"_And you!" Vladimir shouted at his son. "Ivan, you're no good. Ivan, you're worthless. Ivan, you're a fucking fag." Addressing Toris again, Vladimir said, "Now get out." _

_The last thing Ivan remembered was that pair of green eyes, slick, wide with terror, his own defeated face reflected in them, a red mark spreading across his nose and cheek…_

"Ivan?" Alfred's voice once again interrupted the awful memories. The Russian jerked awake from his terrible daydream, a pair of bright blue eyes replacing the horror-filled green ones he could still see looming in the recesses of his mind.

"_Da?_" Ivan said, confused.

"How about you? Highest mountain you've climbed?" Alfred repeated Feliciano's question, offering the Russian a big smile.

"Sorry, I was…zoning out," Ivan tried to explain. "I…it was in India. Around nineteen thousand feet."

"Okay, you, Feliciano?" Alfred asked.

"Oh, sixteen thousand, in the Alps!" Ivan turned to look at the Italian. That was a good thirteen thousand feet less than the height of Everest!

Silence overtook the group again for a while. Ivan was glad for it. As the air grew colder, Ivan withdrew his ushanka from his backpack and pulled it over his ears. Feliciano looked at him quizzically. "Don't those usually have stars on them?" Alfred, Francis, and Ludwig walked ahead of the two of them, with only Lopsang trailing behind.

"Hmm?"

"Your hat," the Italian said. "I've seen them before, but don't they usually have red stars on them instead of eagles?"

Ivan reached up and gently touched the gold-colored metal eagle pin that adorned the black ushanka. He turned his eyes angrily back to the Italian. "You expect me to wear the _Soviet_ star on my head?" he said, his Russian accent thickening as he raised his voice.

"Well – yes – I mean that's how I usually see - "

"You think we are all Communists in Russia?" Ivan growled. Feliciano shook his head robotically, lowering his eyes to the ground. "Good," he said sharply. "You know nothing about Mother Russia."

Feliciano's voice had softened as he said nervously, "I'm sorry, Ivan. I didn't mean it that way."

Ivan's eyes drifted to the mountains. "Russia is much more than all that…" he said, his voice distant and perhaps a little dreamy. "Feliciano, I am sorry, _da_?" But the Italian had hurried away and taken his place next to Ludwig, walking so closely to him their arms brushed. Ivan let Ludwig and Feliciano talk amongst themselves while he remained silent, a headache beginning to burn behind his eyes.

* * *

Feliciano didn't want to move.

A few hours ago, a dull ache had crept its way into his temples. Now, his headache throbbed and pulsed with every step he took. It had grown and spread until it burned behind his nose and eyes. The air felt thin and weak as he gasped at it. No matter how many breaths he took, it never seemed enough to quench his thirst for oxygen. Feliciano stepped onto a loose rock, which shifted under his weight, sliding from beneath his feet. The world suddenly started to swirl around the Italian, and he fell forward onto his knees. He looked up helplessly at the three more experienced climbers – Ludwig, Alfred and Francis – who had pulled a few yards ahead of him as he'd struggled against weary, labored steps. The three turned their heads back at Feliciano, but it was Ludwig who spun around and rushed back to him, kneeling beside him.

"Are you all right?" the German asked, his voice laced with concern.

"Yes, I just – I just tripped on this rock," he said weakly. He wanted to curl up against Ludwig and fall asleep. Francis and Alfred had joined the kneeling pair as Ivan caught up, advancing with slow steps that made him look as though he was just as exhausted as Feliciano. He glanced up at the Russian, whose eyebrows were drawn tightly together and his face flushed bright pink. Lopsang was close behind.

Ludwig held out both his hands. "Come on, Feli."

The Italian placed his hands gingerly in Ludwig's, and he was pulled to his feet. Alfred and Francis looked at each other. "Maybe we should take a break here, no?" Francis said.

Alfred nodded. "Probably a good idea, dude."

They all sat on the ground in a lopsided semi-circle. Feliciano pressed two fingers to his temples and felt the pulse beneath them. He moaned a little and dropped his head into his hands. "What's wrong, _cher_ Feliciano?" Francis asked. "_Qu'est-ce que c'est?_"

"Ah, my head…"

"Headache?" Francis said. Feliciano nodded. The Frenchman fished around in his pack and withdrew a little bottle, which made a rattling sound as he handled it. He shook two white pills into his hand and passed them to the Italian. "Take these, they will help. And drink water. _C'est important."_

Feliciano did as he was told, and then leaned against Ludwig, letting his head fall on the German's shoulder. Ludwig gave a short grunt of surprise, choking a little on the water he'd been drinking, but let the Italian rest where he'd settled. Sunlight glinted off the snow surrounding the group, blazing brightly in his eyes. His head gave a painful squeeze in protest, and he shut his eyes and listened to the conversation around him.

"Ivan, are _you_ okay, dude?" Feliciano heard Alfred ask.

"I am fine," the Russian said, but he didn't sound fine. His voice was tense and coarse.

"Are you sure? You look a little -"

"I am all right, _da?_" Ivan protested. Instead of shouting or snapping, as he'd done to Feliciano earlier, his voice remained quiet, although strained. Feliciano opened his eyes in time to catch the Russian pushing Alfred's gloved hand from his shoulder. "I do not need any help," he said, a slightly indignant expression written onto his face.

The group sat for around fifteen minutes before Alfred announced they should probably get moving again. Everyone else stood immediately, but Feliciano remained sitting. Now that they had rested for a while, his desire to move had diminished even further. He shut his eyes again and wished the light would stop burning in his eyes. "Feli, we've _got_ to go," Ludwig said.

"Mmh," Feliciano groaned. Ludwig held out his hands again, and the Italian accepted them, hauling himself into an upright position. He and Ludwig followed the others. This time, instead of venturing ahead, Ludwig hung back, walking alongside the Italian. At least the landscape around him had stopped spinning. He trudged on, letting the beautiful frosted scenery slip by with his camera resting untouched in his pack. When the morning had begun, he had taken photos of every angle of the mountains that rose in every direction, focusing especially on the peak they were steadily approaching. He'd irritated the others as he paused to snap yet another shot. He'd used three rolls of film already that day, which now clunked around in their canisters in his backpack. Had Feliciano still been feeling well, he might have spent half his film by now.

He lowered his eyes to the rock-littered ground to avoid the overwhelming glint of the sun. His headache had eased, but had not completely vanished. The Italian knew he should be enjoying the scenery, which he might get the chance to observe only once in a lifetime. But as his energy drained, so did his willpower. Every step Feliciano took felt like it should be his last, but every time he pried his eyes from the ground, the village called Lobuche never came into view. Often, he turned to Ludwig and asked, "How much longer until we get there?"

It seemed the German's response was always the same: "Just a few more miles."

After a span of time passed that felt like a lifetime, Feliciano lifted his eyes to observe a tiny smattering of buildings jammed against the foot of mighty Everest. A little whimper of relief escaped his lips. Alfred led the team to their hotel, a small building with a run-down lobby including faded carpets and peeling wood. Feliciano dragged himself up the flight of stairs to the room he and Ludwig would share. After he had ascended a few steps, he paused, huffing and gasping for air. A lightheaded sensation overtook him. As he grasped the railing, he felt as though his world was about to tip over onto its side. Ludwig appeared to his right. "Feliciano…"

"Ludwig, I feel dizzy," Feliciano admitted. He felt Ludwig's arm wind around his waist as the German helped him to the room. He sank down instantly onto the bed and let his heavy eyelids slide shut. Sleep had never come so quickly…

Feliciano awoke to a stabbing sensation that started in the back of his head and traveled through to his eyes. His headache was back – and worse. Blood pounded furiously in his ears. Ludwig lifted his eyes from the book he was reading. "Feliciano, you look very pale. I will go and get Francis, _ja?_" The Italian nodded silently.

Moments later, Francis, Lopsang and Ludwig all stood over him. "Altitude sickness," the Sherpa muttered.

The Frenchman nodded his agreement. "Ivan, too," he whispered. The trio's hushed voices fell softly on Feliciano's aching ears. He felt very hot and just as sleepy as when he'd nodded off hours ago. Francis passed him a water bottle and more pills, which he swallowed quickly. "I want you to drink all of this, Feliciano. Okay?" he said.

"_Si,_" Feliciano mumbled. He propped himself up halfway against the pillows and drank the water in halting sips as Francis, Lopsang and Ludwig all peered at him, their eyes wide.

When he had finished about half the water bottle, the sounds of shouts drifted through the hallway, faint and muddled at first. But then they repeated, clearer and sharper: "Francis! Get in here!" Alfred was yelling.

The Frenchman raised both eyebrows. "I have no idea what is going on, but I had better go," he offered. "Finish that, Feliciano, okay?" He nodded as Francis exited.

"I should…help them," Lopsang added, and followed Francis.

Ludwig sat down on the bed next to Feliciano as he finished his water, running a hand down his back. "L-Ludwig, can you shut the blinds? The light, it hurts my eyes…" The German nodded silently, rose, shut the blinds, and then strode away. Feliciano huffed a little, disappointed, but Ludwig returned holding a dripping, folded washcloth in his hands. He placed it against the Italian's forehead. Ahh, it felt so cool… "I don't understand…" Feliciano said in a quivering voice. "I don't understand why I feel like this. I've climbed higher than this…in the Alps…so why am I…"

"Feli," Ludwig said, halting the Italian's endless string of words. His accent lacked the distant, impersonal edge with which he usually spoke. "It's all right. On previous ascents, I have been as sick as that and worse. It's not fun, but…we get past it. It shouldn't last long." Feliciano looked up into those sharp, ice blue eyes and thought that the German wasn't as tough and apathetic as he seemed to want others to think he was. He felt at ease in the presence of the man seated beside him. He gave Ludwig a dazed, exhausted smile and drained the last of his water. Pulling the pillows down flat, he slid back down atop the sheets, shivering and sweating. Ludwig's hand moved gently across Feliciano's outstretched arm. "Are you going to want any dinner?" he asked.

"No," Feliciano said. "I…I don't think I could eat right now." But he smiled again as the German readjusted the cool cloth on his forehead. Ludwig was taking care of him the way his brother would have – but Lovino would have muttered an irritated remark about how ice climbing was stupid and dangerous.

"I understand. Let me know if you need anything." Feliciano mumbled a response, but exhaustion overtook him once again and he slipped instantly into sleep.

Feliciano slept through the night. He awoke to a gentle nudge to his arm and Ludwig's voice: "Feliciano, you should get up. It's almost nine in the morning."

He sat up and rubbed his eyes, bringing the image of Ludwig into focus. He still felt a little lightheaded, but his headache had vanished. The Italian's stomach growled. For the first time in almost a day, he felt hungry. _Really_ hungry. "Can we get breakfast?" he asked brightly.

"Of course."

Feliciano and Ludwig joined the rest of the team at the dining room in the hotel. The Italian loaded his plate with pancakes and sausage, though he wished they had crepes instead. Some strawberry-filled crepes would be nice right now! He drenched the pancakes in syrup, cut into them hurriedly, and began eating. Francis grinned and remarked, "Feeling better, I take it?"

"Much better!" Feliciano replied cheerfully between forkfuls. He smiled back at the rest of the group.

"Ivan, come on, you _have_ to eat something," the Frenchman urged.

The Russian sipped absently at a glass of orange juice, set the glass down, and pushed around a small pile of food on his plate. The color had drained from his face. Pain shone in those wide purple eyes. He shook his head sullenly and continued to rearrange his food with his fork. "_Nyet, _I do not want to get sick again," he said, quietly and a little hoarsely.

Alfred put his hand on Ivan's shoulder, and this time, the Russian didn't brush it away. Instead, he shut his eyes and leaned toward the American a little. "I'm sure you'll be fine," Alfred said confidently. "I think you got all that out of your system already."

Ivan turned a pair of weary violet eyes toward Alfred and shook his head wordlessly. While Ivan had barely touched his food, Feliciano had devoured all of his. Ludwig glanced at him and chuckled a little. The group finished eating and stood. As they filed out of the dining room, Feliciano heard Alfred remark to Francis, "Hey, whaddaya say we, ah, spend an extra day or two in Lobuche? I think those two could use it."

"_Bonne id__é__e, mon ami_."

* * *

**Thanks for reading, and reviews are love!**

*** "Fourteeners" refers to mountains over 14,000 feet high**


	3. Chapter 3: Base Camp

**One thing I should have mentioned last chapter. You don't trek directly from Kathmandu to Lobuche. You take a plane from Kathmandu to Lukla near the village of Namche, and from there you trek to a few other small villages before arriving at Lobuche. If you didn't take the plane, the trek to Lobuche would take like 2 weeks. I just didn't want to write all of that out for you as it would be repetitive and boring.**

**Also – I messed up! Tengboche is NOT just outside of Kathmandu. It's between Namche and Lobuche. As an aspiring journalist, I strive for accuracy. If any of you catch a factual error (including improper translation) just let me know and I will be happy to make a correction!**

**Now that I've successfully rambled on about Everest facts…enjoy chapter 3!**

* * *

"Wow, that is a _lot_ of shit."

This is what Alfred though aloud as he surveyed the mountain of equipment. It looked as though a tornado had passed through an outdoor supply store and a computer store simultaneously and picked up their entire contents, dumping them into the hotel room in Lobuche. Though he had climbed Everest twice before, the amount of equipment needed to launch an expedition of this scale amazed him every year – and every year, it seemed as though the pile they hauled up the mountain grew in size.

An assortment of ice axes and crampons. Rolled tents and sleeping bags. Prepackaged food. A collection of kitchen equipment so expansive it looked as though Alfred could start a small restaurant with it if he wanted. Oxygen tanks to be used starting at Camp Four. Radios, basic weather instruments, and a few bulky laptop computers. Dense Gore-Tex jackets, gloves, and pants heavy enough to keep them warm as they rose in altitude. Ropes, pitons, and carabineers. And finally, prayer flags for the summit.

As always, they would need the help of porters and yaks to take all this equipment up the mountain. Alfred wasn't good at this part. At Lobuche, the last permanent village en route to Base Camp, porters were in short supply, and expedition guides had to out-negotiate one another in order to encourage the porters to work for them. And unlike the Americans, Canadians, and Europeans that he typically encountered, the Nepalese and Tibetan locals seemed strangely immune to Alfred's charm. On Alfred's first climb in the area, he'd laid on the charm extra-thick. It had made no difference. The guides with the most pocket change were the ones who won over the porters. There _had_ to be another way, right?

The entire group had crammed into the room and pooled all the equipment they wouldn't carry themselves into the same massive pile so they could judge how many porters and yaks they would need. In addition, they would each carry a personal backpack up the mountain. Five pairs of eyes fell on Feliciano and then shifted back to one another, each pondering the same question: how was the little Italian going to haul a pack that looked to be half as big as he was? "All right, how'r we gonna do this?" Alfred said, glancing first at Francis and then at Lopsang.

"Get out your checkbook," Francis said sarcastically.

Lopsang did not seem to be paying attention to Alfred. Instead, he stood with his head bent toward Ludwig. The two uttered strings of words Alfred could not understand, but he knew enough to realize they were speaking Nepali.

"Wow, what language is that?" Feliciano asked, grabbing Ludwig's arm and regarding him with wonder.

"Nepali," Ludwig said.

"_Sorprendente," _Feliciano breathed.

Alfred got an idea. He could almost feel the light bulb spring from his head. "Ludwig! Dude! Pretend _you're_ the guide," he said.

"_Wh-what_?" the German said.

"Pretend you're the guide!" Alfred repeated brightly. "Pretend you're the expedition leader. _You_ go out and get us some porters. You speak Nepali. They'll listen to you. They'll respect you. Take Lopsang with you...and offer them…" Alfred scrawled some numbers onto the page of the notebook he held in his hand, which he used to organize what they needed to do that day. "…this much." He tore out the notebook page, folded it, and handed it to Ludwig. The German nodded solemnly, as though he had just been asked to complete some sort of noble quest. "Be sure to tell them that Summit Adventures is awesome!" Alfred added.

"Awesome?" Ludwig said. "_Mein Gott,_ you sounded like my brother just then."

As Ludwig filed out of the room with Lopsang, Alfred called, "Oh, and Ludwig, smile please!"

Ludwig rolled his eyes and offered the American a tight-lipped smile in return, closing the door behind him.

While the German was gone recruiting porters, snow began to fall outside. It dusted the dingy gray village in a layer of pure, untouched white, soon to be ruined by the trample of climbing boots. As Alfred watched the snow drifting in wisps on the wind, he did not know whether to smile or to sigh in worry. Rock was easier to traverse when covered with snow, but it could also increase the likelihood of avalanches. Also, was it a bad sign that the weather was acting up this early in the climbing season?

Ludwig returned in a few hours. "We have porters!" he announced as he rejoined the group. The team spent the rest of the evening packing their supplies into huge duffels until they bulged at the seams, barely able to be zipped up. They all had trouble sleeping that evening, knowing that the next morning, their Everest expedition would really begin: tomorrow, they would trek to Base Camp.

* * *

Yet another early morning. The team finally seemed to have adjusted to waking before seven. This time, a few porters and yaks trailed them, loaded with equipment. They had walked for around an hour before Feliciano, still not fully awake, asked, "So, why did you all decide to climb Everest?"

"Shall we name you the official question-asker of this expedition?" Ivan said with a tranquil smile.

Alfred laughed before responding, "Why would you _not_ want to climb Everest? It's got to be every ice climber's dream." It had always been his, ever since his father had first taken him to the Adirondacks in upstate New York one winter for his first ice-climbing lesson. He had been only fourteen years old.

"True," Feliciano said. "Well then, how did you all get into climbing?"

"Dad was a climber," Alfred said with a shrug. "He took me hiking when I was little and then he took me climbing when I was old enough. I loved it right away."

"It's the same story for me," Francis added. "My father climbed as well. He also wanted me to follow in his footsteps and become a doctor. This job was, well…_parfait._ I can do both the things I love."

"How about you, Ludwig?" Feliciano said, glancing eagerly at the German.

"Oh, how did I…" Ludwig paused as his eyes roamed the jagged Himalayan horizon. For the first time since the beginning of the expedition, he looked suddenly unfocused, wrapped in memories. "My parents were never mean, but they were very hard on my brother and me. They pushed us to get good grades and to do well in sports. And my older brother Gilbert…it seemed as though he could do no wrong in their eyes. But not me. Climbing was something that was all my own. Gilbert does not climb. It is only me up there, _ja_?" Ivan nodded and smiled at Ludwig. Alfred thought it seemed as though Ivan could empathize with the German. "If I summit Everest," Ludwig continued, "I will have completed the Seven Summits."

Alfred's own curiosity was piqued now. But before he could turn to the Russian, Feliciano chimed in. "Well, _my _parents weren't the greatest, either," he said a little impetuously. Alfred was shocked to hear the Italian speak without his customary cheer and lightness. "They kept me and Lovino on a short leash. They were overprotective. Afraid something would happen to us. As soon as I got to college, I wanted to have an _adventure._" His eyes widened, then his voice returned to normal. "Climbing's my adventure."

When Feliciano had finished speaking, Alfred glanced into the pair of purple eyes, searching for answers. "Ivan, what's your story? Why'd you start climbing?" he asked.

"Ah, it was just a way to get away from everything," Ivan responded, but offered nothing more. There was distance in his eyes, but he was still smiling.

Alfred sensed the Russian was hiding something – or at least refusing to elaborate on a story that ran deeper than he let on. And the American knew in that moment he wanted to fill in the pieces missing from the picture in his mind he had formed of this man named Ivan Braginsky. If anyone could unravel even the most quiet and mysterious of people and get them to talk like old friends, it was Alfred. Ivan was certainly that mystery. Over the course of the two weeks the team had spent together so far, Ivan had said about half the words everyone else had spoken around dinner tables and on long trails – where there was nothing to entertain themselves but the scenery and one another's company. Alfred wanted to know what was behind those wide violet eyes and that peaceful smile. Part of it was the unspoken thrill of a challenge. It was rewarding to hear another reveal to you a secret they keep from most of the world – it was as though you have achieved some sort of victory. But to Alfred, it was more than that. He felt drawn to Ivan in some unexplainable way. Was it those eyes? That smile? He had no idea.

Soon, Ivan fell back from the rest of the group, lost in reflection as Ludwig, Feliciano, and Francis chatted. Lopsang conversed with the porters in their native language. Alfred purposely slowed his steps until the Russian caught up with him. They walked together for a moment in silence. Alfred's eyes wandered to Ivan's face. _What pretty purple eyes…_ he started to think until he gritted his teeth in a rebellion against his own thoughts. _No, goddamn it, that is_ not_ an okay thing to think!_ Yet his curiosity overwhelmed him, so he broke the silence: "Ivan, are you sure that's all?"

"_Da…_"the Russian said, but he didn't sound particularly convincing.

"No, it's not. What were you trying to get away from?" Watching Ivan shake his head, Alfred smiled warmly to match the strange warmth within him. "You can tell me," he reassured.

"Okay," Ivan said. "My father…" he hesitated another moment, "…he hit me, for as long as I can remember. I am not really sure why. My sisters, too, but…they always get off easier than me. Then one day, I saw on the television news a man climbing Mount Elbrus. I was seventeen. I wondered what it would be like to climb. So I…saved all my money and went ice climbing. When I got up there, nothing else mattered. Not my father. Not anyone. That is why I like ice climbing so much. That is why I am here."

A melancholy veil had fallen over Ivan's face; it was unnerving to Alfred to see him without the same peaceful expression he usually wore and always returned to, like it was the Russian's default setting. "Ivan, I…I'm sorry. I don't know what to say…"

"You are not having to say anything, _da_?" Ivan said as he shifted his pack on his shoulder. "It was…long time ago. I am away from all that now. Nothing can be done about the past – except to climb, to try to erase it."

Alfred blinked. He wondered if Ivan was aware of the understated wisdom with which he had just spoken. Although it seemed as though the Russian had not entirely been able to brush off the memories of the past as though they were unimportant, he had found a way to coexist with them: through climbing. And wasn't that why they were _all_ here, to some extent? Alfred considered this when he felt a sudden weight on his left arm. He jumped a little and turned to find Ivan holding his arm as they walked. His smile had returned, but it did not reach all the way to his eyes. His scarf partially obscured his mouth; between the scarf and the hat he wore, the only parts of Ivan's face that were visible were his eyes and pink-tipped nose. "Um, well, okay," the American said, mostly to break the silence. "If you need to talk, I…I'll listen."

"_Spasiba_," Ivan said without letting go of Alfred's arm.

* * *

It seemed like it had taken forever, but the group finally arrived at Base Camp. Many other expeditions had already set up camp, filling the slab of snow and ice upon which the camp was perched with a collage of tents. Domes in red, orange, and blue were everywhere, often with the expedition's native flag flying proudly overhead. Ludwig picked out an American flag, a Swiss flag, and a flag from New Zealand. Already, climbers commuted from tents filled with radios and computers to kitchen tents and sleeping tents. Ludwig could hear at least five different languages being spoken around him.

Ludwig noticed Feliciano squinting ahead in the distance and tilting his head back and forth. "It _is!_" the Italian exclaimed, and went sprinting off in the direction he'd been looking. Ludwig followed him, curious as to what was going on. Feliciano launched himself with open arms at a tall, slender man with dark brown hair, an intense unmoving face, and cool purple eyes. The man grunted as the Italian flung his arms around him, staggering back a few steps against the weight of Feliciano's body. "_Roderich!_ How weird is this, seeing you here!"

"_You_ are here? _You_? What are you doing here?" the man said flatly. His body had stiffened. He did not return Feliciano's embrace, but the Italian didn't let go, his face pressed against Roderich's chest.

"I'm climbing Everest, that's what I'm doing!" Feliciano replied. Ludwig was surprised at the innocence with which Feliciano spoke those words; it was as if he'd been asked what he was doing at a mall, and he'd responded that he was buying new jeans.

"Okay, Feliciano, that is enough," Roderich said as the Italian still clung to him. "Feliciano. Please. Feliciano. Felici-" Finally, Roderich peeled Feliciano's arms away from his body and peered at the smiling man, disbelief clouding his eyes.

Ludwig felt sudden heat leap into his cheeks. His hands tightened into fists at his sides as he regarded the pair, watching Feliciano grin and chuckle. The desire to intervene overwhelmed him. He put a hand on Feliciano's shoulder and locked eyes with the man named Roderich, holding his gaze without relenting. He felt as though he recognized the man, but could not draw his image to the forefront of his memory. Roderich scrutinized Ludwig with the same question looming in his eyes. It was the German who spoke first. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

Roderich's face broke into a slight smile. "I think so. Kilimanjaro, '92?"

"_Ja_, I was there!"

"Roderich Edelstein." The man held out his hand.

Ludwig's eyes flicked to Feliciano and then back to Roderich. He paused before taking the other man's hand and shaking it stiffly. He had no idea why he felt so cold toward a man he barely knew. "Ludwig Beilschmidt." He did not notice the way the sharp edge to his voice melted away as he turned toward Feliciano. "_Are you two a…thing?" _he asked in perfect Italian.

"_What?_" Feliciano said in his native language as he spun around to face Ludwig, surprised at the sound of the German accent pronouncing the smooth Italian words. "_Me and him? No. Not at all!" _He laughed and shook his head, his curl bouncing a little. "_He thinks that I am ridiculous."_

"Wait, you _know_ this goon?" Roderich interrupted, jerking his thumb at Feliciano.

"How do _you_ know him?" Ludwig shot back, his lips pulling into a slight sneer. What right did this…Roderich have? Yes, maybe he knew Feliciano before Ludwig had, but clearly he didn't care for the Italian, did he? The German still could not place the source of his anger. Really, Roderich had never done anything to him. All he had done was stiffen in Feliciano's embrace.

Feliciano answered for Roderich. "Oh, he was my guide in the Alps!"

Roderich nodded, a thin smile crossing his lips in spite of his eyes' effort to remain devoid of emotion. "You know, Ludwig, have you ever thought of becoming a guide yourself?"

"_Ja_, as soon as I decide it is financially better to abandon my law practice and my brother with it to climb mountains for a living," he said without humor, but Roderich chuckled dryly anyway.

"Oh, Ludwig, you would be so _good_ at that!" Feliciano exclaimed, grabbing the German's arm. Ludwig smirked, feeling he had achieved some sort of private victory at the Italian's touch. "He knows _everything_, Roderich! He even speaks Nepali!" Ludwig could not have told the Italian to say anything better.

"Hey, guys, come check this out!" Alfred appeared behind the trio. He waved his hand in the opposite direction, where a small smattering of people had clustered. "Ya gotta see it!" Ludwig followed the American willingly. The Italian bounded along after them. Pushing past other climbers who stood watching with eager faces, they arrived upon two men who gripped and rotated a huge hunk of machinery with several tiny red and green lights. A man on the opposite side talked animatedly, waving his hands as he spoke. Feliciano peered at it in wonder. Ludwig glanced back over his shoulder at Roderich, who was now chatting with a woman with long brown hair, and a short-haired Asian.

Moving his eyes back to the piece of machinery, he said to Alfred, "What is all of this?"

"It's a camera!" Alfred said. "Can you believe it? The thing weighs forty freaking pounds! It's for an IMAX movie."

"Oh, what's that?" Feliciano said.

"It's this _biiiiig _movie screen." Alfred strung his i's together as though they were Christmas lights and held his arms wide out to his sides. "Bigger than regular ones. They make you feel like you're right there! So now they can take normal people up Everest without really being there, ya know? But _we_ get to be here." He grinned.

"Are we good?" said a member of the crew.

"Yup! That's a wrap," said another.

The camera was hauled away. Climbers stared after it with wide eyes and fascinated expressions. Alfred approached the lingering crew fearlessly. "Hey! How are you all doing?" he greeted.

"Wonderful, wonderful!" a man replied.

"We're the Summit Adventures team," Alfred said, his face glowing with pride. He held out his hand. "I'm Alfred Jones."

The man took Alfred's hand and shook it vigorously. "Ah, Summit Adventures! Good team. I've heard about you guys. I'm David Breashears*. IMAX team."

"It's an honor, I'm sure!" Alfred said. "Oh, this is Feliciano Vargas, and Ludwig Beilschmidt. Hell if I know where Ivan, Francis, and my Sherpas got off to. It's like a zoo up here." He chuckled, and David laughed with him. Ludwig was impressed with how easily Alfred could approach anyone he wanted, and within minutes, they would be talking and laughing together like old friends. How did he do it? If Alfred had met Roderich, even the stern Austrian probably would have lightened up in the American's presence – unlike Ludwig, who had probably alienated the other guide. But it seemed like Roderich had ignored Ludwig's cold tone of voice. "Ludwig's going for the Seven Summits, isn't that cool?"

David nodded his agreement and reached out to shake Alfred's hand again. "I've got to go see to my crew," he said. "We'll see you guys up there?"

"Yeah!" Alfred said.

* * *

About an hour after Alfred met David Breashears, he found himself doing something he never expected: teaching a climber how to cross the ladders they would be traversing over the Khumbu Icefall within the next few days.

Feliciano stared at the ladder on the ground before him as though it was some sort of foreign object he'd never seen before. While the Italian moved up ice walls with ease in his crampons, he had never crossed a ladder spanning a crevasse before. Better to get used to it now than in a few days, when below them was not solid ground, but a plunging chasm whose bottom you could not see. Feliciano took very small steps, holding his arms out to his sides. "Yeah, that's right, go slow," Alfred asserted. "Better to be safe."

The Italian nodded. Alfred could tell he was trying so desperately to smile, but it wasn't working. Instead, frustration was written onto his face. Perhaps he was finally realizing just what he'd gotten himself into. Feliciano was the only one who had not crossed such ladders before – even Ivan, who had more experience than Feliciano but less than Francis, Alfred, and Ludwig, had traversed crevasses in the mountains of India and Russia.

"Alfred." The American turned at the sound of the unfamiliar voice. It was David. "The guides are meeting to discuss summit dates. Are you…" he glanced at Feliciano, "…busy?"

Ludwig appeared out of nowhere. "Alfred, I will take over from here." Feliciano's face lit up at the sight of the German.

Alfred followed David into one of the biggest tents he could see. "I have some people for you to meet," David announced. "Everyone, this is Alfred Jones. Alfred, this is Scott Fischer of Mountain Madness*, out of Seattle." Alfred shook the man's hand heartily. What he always loved about fellow climbers was how firm and confident their handshakes usually were. "And Rob Hall*, from New Zealand."

"Nice to meet you," Rob said in a lilting accent.

"And Roderich Edelstein. He runs _Spitze Treck_ out of Austria," David added.

"_Guten tag, Herr_ Jones," Roderich said. "I do not think your German friend likes me very much."

"No? Why the heck not?" Alfred said.

Roderich chuckled dryly. "I think he has a thing for that Feliciano. As soon as Feliciano came over to me, Ludwig is staring at me like he hates me already."

Alfred raised both eyebrows and laughed a little himself before David continued. "And last, but certainly not least…Alfred, I'd like you to meet Jamling Tenzing Norgay*. He's the son of…"

"_Tenzing Norgay _is your father?" Alfred butted in, unable to contain himself. The Sherpa nodded. "Like, _the_ Tenzing Norgay? Like _the_ Tenzing Norgay who was the first person to summit Everest, with Sir Edmund Hillary? _That_ Tenzing Norgay?"

"Yes," the Sherpa replied with a smile.

"Oh my _God,_ I can't believe it!" Alfred shook the man's hand, a little too hard. He was gushing like a fangirl who had just discovered that she and her newest friend shared the same OTP.

The guides settled down into chairs around a table to coordinate their summit bids so that there wouldn't be traffic jams, especially through the narrow Hillary Step. Though Alfred was the youngest of all the guides, he spoke up first. He was not intimidated by the more experienced guides him. "So it looks like our best window is May ninth through the thirteenth. I think we should give the IMAX guys first choice," he said.

"I agree," Scott Fischer said. Alfred grinned, satisfied. He had said something intelligent that the other guides had agreed with! He linked both hands together behind his head and leaned back against them. "So when would you like to summit, David?" Scott finished.

"We were thinking May 9."

"That works for us," Rob said. "We would like to take the tenth, then."

"We would like the tenth also," Roderich said.

Alfred leered at the Austrian. "Hey, _we_ want the tenth, too, bro!" Roderich smirked at Alfred and shook his head.

"Alfred, hey, why don't you and I take the eleventh?" Scott asked, smiling at the American.

Sighing and shooting an admonishing glance at Roderich, Alfred conceded, "Okay."

* * *

The team sat in the kitchen tent eating together after Alfred had announced the summit date. The word "summit" had sent chills down Ludwig's spine. Even though they had a month and a half of acclimatization before they could reach the top, Everest had never felt more within reach to the German than it did now. He was lost in the thoughts of finally achieving his dream when a voice drifted into his ear as if from far away…

"I like you, Ludwig," Feliciano said.

"I like you too, Feliciano," Ludwig said without hesitation. But then he flinched.

Feliciano had covered Ludwig's hand with his own. The German glanced at him. Though his tone had been full of energy, as always, his face was serious, his lips pressed tightly together, his brows furrowed a little. The Italian's voice was cheerful. But his somber expression told a different story. It said as clearly as if he had spoken the words: "I'm serious. I _like_ you."

Ludwig hesitated. He wasn't one to rush into relationships, but this time, it was what he wanted, wasn't it? He couldn't explain it, but it was. They were on this mountain, miles away from everything they knew, so why not? Once they descended, he would return to Berlin and Feliciano to Rome – right? Smiling at the Italian, he turned Feliciano's hand over and curled his own fingers around it. He hoped that was enough of an answer. Feliciano made a little noise of delight, the seriousness dissolving from his face as it broke into a smile.

Across the tent, Alfred and Ivan locked eyes and smiled at each other, then looked away without speaking. "I'm glad we're not like that," Feliciano said.

"We?" Ludwig said in surprise, but then laughed it off. "We," he repeated, his voice barely audible.

It wasn't long before Feliciano yawned, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. The rest of the team sported similar weary looks. They all began to wander back to their tents. There was a faint din in the air as climbers from other expeditions chatted and began to slink off to bed themselves. Ludwig and Feliciano headed to the tent they shared.

Feliciano started to push open the tent. Ludwig had not planned to go any further that night. But the Italian smiled at him with parted lips as though he was just _inviting_ Ludwig.

The simple phrase ran through Ludwig's mind: _Why not?_

He grabbed Feliciano's arm, pulled him in close, and kissed him.

* * *

**As always, thanks for reading, and reviews are love :)**

*** All people with this next to their name actually ascended Everest in 1996.**


	4. Chapter 4: Khumbu Icefall

"Feliciano, time to wake up."

It had become routine for Ludwig and Feliciano. Ludwig, obviously the early riser out of the two, woke first and let the Italian sleep for a few more minutes before waking him. This morning, at first, was no different. Feliciano's eyes flicked open to the sound of that now-familiar German accent. "Still too early," he mumbled back at Ludwig.

But then, breaking their established cycle, Ludwig brushed the back of his hand against Feliciano's cheek, kneeled beside the curled-up Italian, and kissed him softly on the lips. "Come on, Feli, aren't you excited to see the Icefall?" he said, his tone slightly teasing though he spoke at a whisper. "Aren't you excited to do some _real_ climbing?"

Though Feliciano wanted to sleep longer, the brush of Ludwig's lips against his was enough to make him grab a handful of the German's shirt and use it to haul himself into a sitting position. He let his face hover only inches away from Ludwig's. "I _will_ be…once I am _awake!_" he shot back, but he still sounded as though there was nothing he wanted more than to reacquaint his head with his pillow. It was too early to try to be playful with the German! He'd save that for later in the day. But what it wasn't too early for was…another kiss. He pressed his lips to Ludwig's, lingering longer than the other man had moments ago. When he pulled away, he buried his face in the space between Ludwig's neck and shoulder blade, and let his eyelids slide shut again. The skin was warm against his face. He could fall asleep again, right like this…

"_Nein_. Get up." Ludwig's words were a command, but his voice was gentle as he nudged the Italian in the shoulder. Feliciano relented, got up, and prepared for the day ahead of them.

Before the group members would begin their journey into the Icefall, they would attend a _puja_ ceremony, which the Sherpas insisted upon holding before they would continue past Base Camp. That was about all Feliciano knew about why the six of them had gathered around a tall pole with prayer flags attached to it, anchored into the ground tightly with a pile of rocks. Ludwig was the one who knew all about local customs. His knowledge fascinated the Italian. _Where did he learn all that? On previous climbs? Or did he research it? Is Nepali a hard language to learn?_ Feliciano asked himself while sneaking glances at the man seated to his left. But he had learned from the experience at the temple that Ludwig would be unhappy if he started talking, thus breaking the peace of a sacred moment. That was what the mountain was to the German: a sacred pursuit. Feliciano admired him for it, as for himself, it was an adventure to be had, a challenging goal to reach, a message to send to his family and friends: _I'm not a kid, and I can handle myself!_ Ludwig's reasons for climbing Everest were so much more…noble than his.

He sat quietly as a man chanted in a local language that sounded similar to, though not identical to, Nepali. Beside him, Ludwig placed some energy bars at the base of the flagpole. "Feli – you, too," he urged at a whisper.

"Why?" Feliciano asked.

"It's an offering."

"Oh, that's funn-" He'd started to say "funny," of course, but caught the German's serious expression and put a few small food items near the pole, as Ludwig had done. Next, they all brought their climbing equipment to be blessed. Finally, after the entire team chanted together, which Feliciano thought was a bit ridiculous, Alfred stood.

"Who's ready for some Icefall action?" he said, sounding like the charismatic hero out of an action film.

The Italian sprang to his feet. "I am!" Instead of sounding cool, as Alfred had, he realized his answer had been vaguely reminiscent of the too-eager teacher's pet, confidently answering a question in class. He shrugged it off and smiled at Ludwig, who regarded him with amusement. The team sorted through their equipment from the pile they had put it in so it could be blessed. They all pulled on their climbing boots, strapped on their crampons, and wielded their ice axes so they could depart for a day of climbing.

Soon, they stood at the mouth of a maze of ice structures bridged by sets of aluminum ladders, which looked diminutive and rickety in comparison to the hulking towers of glacial deposits around them. The ice was colored in varying shades of white, pale blue, and turquoise, and was distorted into patterns of waves and into jagged structures that looked like gigantic aquamarine crystals. This was the Khumbu Icefall. Feliciano's eyes widened in wonder. It was a place like nothing he'd ever seen before. It was almost magical – like a corner of the earth lost in time. He followed the group, eager to explore every inch of this place.

They came across the first ladder spanning a crevasse. Francis crossed it first so that Alfred could stay behind to help anyone who needed it. Feliciano watched the Frenchman size up the ladder as his breath hitched a little. He stepped onto the ladder tentatively, placing a foot onto the first rung almost as slowly as though Feliciano had been watching a movie in slow motion. The usually nonchalant Frenchman suddenly looked uncertain. With raised eyebrows, he looked like he was fighting to fix his gaze ahead instead of looking down into the depths of the crevasse. And Francis had climbed Everest _three times!_ The Italian was a little unnerved. Since he had walked just behind Francis, it was now Feliciano's turn. He wandered to the edge of the ladder and was confronted with a deep gorge slicing into the earth. Staring down into it, his body began to tremble all over. He knew he should move forward, but his legs felt like jelly beneath him. He had never been so terrified while climbing before. _What's _wrong _with me_, he wondered? They had not even reached Camp One, and already Feliciano had hit more walls than he had on any other mountain he had ever ascended.

He whipped around to look at Ludwig. "L-Luddy…" he called uncertainly back to the German.

"Would you like me to go first?" Ludwig offered, smiling softly.

"_Si._"

"Here is what's going to happen. I will go first. You will see that it is safe. You will go after me, and you will not look down, you will look at _me_," Ludwig said. "You will keep your eyes on me. Can you do that for me?"

"_Si,_ I'll try, Ludwig."

He stepped aside to let the German cross the ladder in front of him. He swallowed hard as his dear Ludwig's crampons locked onto the aluminum rungs. _Please let him be okay_, he prayed silently as he shut his eyes. He didn't want to watch. What if Ludwig fell? Then, who would protect him? _Oh God, oh God, don't let him fall…oh, I'll never do anything wrong again! _Mio dio_, I promise I'll never pester Lovino again if only you'll keep my Ludwig safe…_ His silent pleas grew frantic. The tension was too great. Feliciano pried his eyes open. The German aimed his narrowed eyes at the end of the ladder, as though he was challenging it to a staring contest. He was frowning so intensely it looked like it hurt. There was an unfamiliar faint glimmer of worry in Ludwig's eyes. But his footfalls were careful, and in a moment he stepped off the ladder and onto the solid ground at the other side.

Feliciano glanced down at the ladder briefly in order to find his foot's place upon it before looking up at Ludwig, just as the German had asked him to do. Slowly, he started to walk. Each tentative step seemed as though it carried him only an inch forward. The length of ladder in front of him seemed never to decrease in size. Eager to reach the safety of the other side, he took slightly larger steps. At the middle, Feliciano felt the ladder bounce and shift under his weight. He froze in horror. Without thinking, he looked down into the crevasse. At its mouth, the chasm was a pale crystalline blue, but as it narrowed, it became dark blue, finally fading into a thin strip of black. Feliciano couldn't see the bottom. He felt as though he was staring right through the center of the earth. If he fell off the ladder, would he remain in freefall forever, icy wind rushing past his ears as he was carried on into ever-advancing blackness? He made a little fearful noise.

"Feli, eyes up here! Don't look down!" Ludwig urged from the end of the ladder. The Italian glanced back up at Ludwig, but the damage had already been done. He already had the image of that unending crevasse planted deep in his mind. How could he make himself get to the other side of that ladder? Aha…he thought of Ludwig's lips. He thought of kissing the German again. With that thought in his mind, Feliciano walked to the end of the ladder, still with careful steps. Once his feet were planted firmly on solid ice, he threw his arms around Ludwig. The German's arms wrapped around him protectively. "_Mein Gott_, how many times must I get you out of trouble on this expedition?" he said.

"Maybe just a few more times," Feliciano mumbled guiltily. But then, he remembered the thought that had urged him to the end of the ladder. Eagerly, he draped both arms around Ludwig's neck and kissed him, this time running his tongue over the other man's lower lip. The tips of their tongues touched ever so lightly. Feliciano smiled against Ludwig's lips and felt the fear of the previous moment ebb out of him. Somehow, in the German's presence, he felt like nothing bad would happen to him…Ludwig wouldn't let him get hurt, would he? The Italian pulled away slowly and gazed into the other man's face, noticing for the first time that the pair of blue eyes glancing back at him nearly matched the shade of the glacial deposits in the Khumbu Icefall. It was as if Ludwig was made for this place. He hummed lightly in admiration.

Now Ivan was crossing the aluminum ladder. But somehow his eyes barely moved. His expression was one of quiet optimism as he took measured yet evenly paced steps across the opening of the crevasse. _How in the world is that Russian so calm right now?_ Feliciano wondered as he watched Ivan. Even Ludwig, one of the most experienced climbers of the expedition, had looked a little nervous, but there was no fear in those purple eyes. As the Russian joined Feliciano, Ludwig, and Francis, his lips curved faintly upward beneath his scarf. _Smiling? Smiling? How are you smiling? _Feliciano wanted to shout, but that might just piss Ivan off. A climber could die crossing one of those ladders, but Ivan looked as though he had just finished taking a stroll in the park!

Alfred was the next to cross. He threw back his head with an air of confidence. But even the cocky American bit his lip to hide the way it trembled slightly. Lopsang the Sherpa crossed next, and he didn't look worried, but for him, it was understandable. It was his job. He'd probably crossed the Icefall a dozen times already.

The rest of the day was better. Next, they traversed a wall of ice that looked like a frozen waterfall. Feliciano was much more comfortable with this one! Instead of crossing a rickety bridge, the points of his crampons bit into solid ice, lodging into it as he gripped the ropes affixing him to the side of the glacier. Even if he should take a wrong step, the ropes should stop his fall. He was used to this. It was the sort of climbing he'd done in the Alps without problems. And he was surrounded on both sides by strong men! Alfred was behind him. Ludwig climbed just in front of him, his skillful movements reassuring the Italian that it was safe. With both gloved hands wound around the ropes, the German hauled himself up the face of the ice effortlessly, leaving Feliciano to admire his firm ass. If they weren't hanging by their crampons from a huge chunk of ice, fifty feet above ground, he'd want to put his hands on it!

When they reached the top of the slope, they had to back-climb down the other side. Feliciano reveled in the pleasing _crunch_ as the points of his crampons and his ice axe dug into the ice. He picked a foot up carefully and lodged it into the ice a few feet down from his current position and used the ice axe to balance as he descended. But then the firm glacial deposit they'd been descending dropped off precipitously, another ladder spanning the gap until they could put their feet on solid ground again. Feliciano's heart pounded furiously in his chest, but Ludwig was behind him now, so he reminded himself to breathe, and kept going.

The rest of the day went much like this: stepping over thin splits in the earth, crossing ladders, ascending ice faces. They finally arrived at Camp One, where the Sherpas were already setting up camp. The team would not sleep there for another few days. _Climb high, sleep low_ was every high-altitude climber's mantra. Descending to sleep eased the process of acclimatization, helping to prevent altitude sickness. The group rested at Camp One for an hour before they retreated back through the Icefall to Base Camp. The second time through wasn't as nerve-jangling, but Feliciano still felt awful. Was this more of a challenge than he imagined it would be?

* * *

"Y'know what I could really go for right now?" Alfred said as he flopped down into his chair. They all sat in the dining tent now. It took an hour and a half for water to reach a boil at this altitude, and longer at higher altitudes. They waited with empty stomachs for a well-deserved dinner. "Gelato."

"Oh, that would be so _good!_" Feliciano remarked.

"Wouldn't it, though? It'd taste damn good right about now."

Ivan chuckled at the both of them. Such food pigs! He had no idea where the two put it all - they were both so slender! Ivan ate less than them but was still a little soft in the middle. Shifting his gaze upward from his own midsection to the climbers around him, he noticed for the first time they all had harder, tighter bodies than his. He sighed a little. His father had berated him for that, too…

"Ice cream always tastes good after a tough hike," Alfred continued. "I remember when me and my cousin Matthew hiked the _whole_ Appalachian Trail. We hike together, but I couldn't get him to come climbing with me! Anyway…there's this place at the halfway point where you're supposed to eat half a gallon of ice cream. It's tradition! I finished mine, no problem…of course!" He smirked as he rambled about his previous adventures without letting the others get a word in edgewise. Ivan could have sworn he caught the American sneaking glances at him as he talked – that their eyes had met briefly a few times. No, Ivan must be crazy! Why would Alfred be looking at _him_? "Mattie ate all his, too, but he can't put it away like I can. He doesn't have the gift. He threw it all back up an hour later." The American's eyes moved to Francis, who wore a rather twisted, almost lustful smirk. Alfred rolled his eyes. "Don't think I don't see you looking like that."

"Looking like _what,_ eh?" the Frenchman said, feigning innocence.

"You get that look when I talk about my cousin. Dude, maybe I never should have introduced you to him."

"Why?" Feliciano asked. Of course he was always the curious one.

Alfred held his hands up and shrugged. "Okay, okay, everyone. Yes, Francis is _fucking_ my cousin." The Italian giggled a little. Francis looked amused. Alfred didn't.

"Fucking?" Francis echoed. "We do more than that."

"Oh, I forgot," Alfred said sarcastically, "you go out to dinner sometimes first."

Ivan allowed himself to glance at Alfred. Everything about the man's face was entrancing. His golden blonde hair and golden tan skin made him look as though he'd just stepped off the beach. The color and the warmth behind them reminded him of his precious sunflowers…like the ones in a photograph on his wall at home. He imagined lying in a field of sunflowers with Alfred…in Ivan's mind, the American looked like he belonged there, the hue of his hair seeming to match the colors of the sunflower and of the sun itself. He pulled his scarf up around his mouth and smiled beneath it. Though Ivan loved just letting Alfred talk, he wanted to hear that voice directed at _him_. "Ah, Alfred, you and your ice cream," he said with a gentle laugh. He shook his head in fake disbelief.

"Oh, and what would _you_ rather have?" Alfred said, his tone playful. "Don't you dare say borsch. Ugh! Sounds…gross."

Ivan chuckled, heartily this time, nudging the American in the arm as he did so. He liked the feeling of the warm, light contact their arms made, and wanted more of it. "What, you think all we eat in Russia is borsch?"

"And all you drink is vodka," Alfred confirmed, resting his elbows on the table.

"Well, I _do_ like vodka, _da_!" Ivan pulled the scarf away from his face a bit to let Alfred see the smile stretched across his face. He thought that from the way the American was joking with him, maybe it was…possible. But he knew in that moment he could deny it to himself no longer: he _wanted_ Alfred! "But what I would really like to be eating right now would be pelmeni."

"What the hell is a pelmeni?" Alfred said.

Ivan could picture Katyusha teaching him how to make the little dumpling-like bites in the small kitchen in her apartment, the smell of cooking meat sweetening the air. She'd learned to cook from their mother. Not long after the incident with Toris, Ivan's elder sister had entered college, and had decided to move her brother and sister into her new apartment to take them away from their awful father. Those were some of the good days he remembered having: Katyusha cooking away in the kitchen, Ivan watching her, in preparation for the day when he'd live on his own. "Ah…beef, pork, and sometimes lamb, wrapped in dough," Ivan said. He could almost taste them on his tongue, could almost see Natalia setting plates out for the three of them!

"Sounds like something I'd like!" Alfred said.

Lost in a haze of daydreaming about Alfred, Ivan replied without thinking, "I wish I could make them for you." He spoke as if the other four were not sitting right across from him and Alfred at the table. As he heard his own words, he blushed a little, wishing he'd thought before he just blurted whatever was on his mind.

But instead of looking at Ivan like he was stupid, as the Russian imagined would happen, Alfred grinned. "I wish that, too!" His voice was so warm and inviting…

* * *

After dinner, Alfred and Francis left the rest of the group, intending to develop a schedule for the coming weeks that would acclimatize the team properly. But that's not exactly where their conversation turned once they entered the communications tent together.

"So, when are you going to kiss that Russian _cher_ of yours, eh?" Francis offered, his lips curling into a sly smirk.

"WHAT?" Alfred said, shocked. "He's not – I don't – "

"Of _course_ he's not," Francis mocked. "He is just your _friend_, and you are just being_ nice_, and all of that. Yes, I've heard it all before. No need to repeat it."

Shaking his head, Alfred protested, "But do I look like the kind of guy who would like…other…men…?" As the American's words trailed off, he paused to think for a moment. Wasn't he? What about the funny feelings he had for that young British professor of his back at the university? No, that was nothing, they were just…_was_ it nothing, though? Arthur Kirkland had just received his doctorate, and Alfred's junior year of college was his first year teaching in the parks, recreation and tourism department. The new professor was clearly brilliant and passionate, but nervous at first. Arthur and Alfred had discovered they shared a love for ice climbing over trips to the campus coffee shop. Alfred remembered with a smile that he had always ordered a caramel latté and two double-chocolate brownies, while Arthur always had tea and a scone. Had that been more than just a professor and student swapping climbing stories over hot drinks? Alfred thought of the way the Englishman had always leaned in toward him…

"Ah, I see," Francis said, his voice confident as if he could read Alfred's mind, his eyes flashing mischievously. "It is all right, Alfred, I promise you that." The Frenchman's voice had suddenly become gentler, a soft smile gracing his face.

"For _you_ maybe," Alfred said. "You'll screw anyone, dude. Girls, guys." He paused and raised one eyebrow. "Aliens," he added, smirking back at Francis. He laughed in spite of how frustrated he was with the Frenchman and with himself.

Laughing, Francis said, "Well, I don't know about aliens. That would depend on the alien."

Alfred stared down at his hands. He hated to admit it, but maybe Francis was right. Now that it was on his mind, he looked back on the previous two weeks. The warm, nervous energy he felt in the pit of his stomach when he was around Ivan. The squeeze his heart gave when he looked into the Russian's big purple eyes. Why didn't he notice earlier? Alfred was torn between wanting to run to Ivan and kiss him, and wanting to smash something. "So what should I do?" he asked wistfully.

Francis placed a hand on Alfred's shoulder. "_Mon ami,_ you go for it."

"But how do I even know Ivan is – how do I know he would – "

Francis chuckled and shook his head. "Alfred, haven't you seen the way he looks at you? The way you…look at him?"

Alfred felt his cheeks get very hot, and he just knew his whole face was bright red. "Is it…that obvious?"

"_Juste un peu._ Just a little, Alfred," the Frenchman said, glancing amusedly at his American friend. "Besides, if it does not work out, you get off this mountain and you never have to see Ivan again. So you've got nothing to lose, no?"

"I guess," Alfred said.

* * *

**As always, thanks for reading, and reviews are love :)**


	5. Chapter 5: Camp One

**LONG author's note time. Someone pointed out to me that I have not made the timeline of this fic exactly clear! **

**From the time climbers arrive at Kathmandu to the time they leave to head back home, it takes around 2 months to climb Everest, give or take a week or so. **

**Let's imagine that the arrival in Kathmandu is day 0. **

**The team would arrive at Tengboche temple at, say, day 4.**

**Arrival at Lobuche would be about day 7.**

**They'd reach Base Camp – let's say day 11. **

**And let's round it out by putting their first trip into the Khumbu Icefall at day 14 – that marks 2 weeks spent in Nepal.**

**Now, it's day 17, and the team is staying at Camp One for the first time! Sorry if this chapter isn't as good as the others. I struggled with it a bit for some reason.**

* * *

Surprisingly, the group was doing very well after having spent five days at Base Camp. Ivan knew that for a while, Alfred, Francis, and Lopsang had been worried that their progress would be slowed by altitude sickness. But neither he nor Feliciano fell back into the debilitating illness' clutches. Feliciano was still struggling a bit, but as for his part, Ivan felt really good. It was as though his body took the altitude sickness as a personal challenge, swallowing it whole and pushing right on through until he felt better than ever. But for a while, he'd been hit even harder than the little Italian. Nothing felt worse than spending an evening on your knees, bent over a toilet, puking your guts out. Except for maybe spending an evening on your knees, bent over a toilet, puking your guts out at 17,000 feet, feeling as though the mountain you came to conquer was instead conquering _you_ – and to top it all off, the man you're attracted to is the one who's taking care of you.

And to Ivan, it wasn't just being sick. It was the feeling of being _out of control._ Ivan had no control to stop his head from aching. He had no control to stop his stomach from emptying its contents. It was a feeling he'd become very familiar with in his young life, and that he'd spent all his adult life running from. In many ways, it was what drove him to climb in the first place. Yet somehow, it had managed to follow him all the way to Everest…

Ivan sighed and shouldered his pack, ready for another day of climbing. Today would be a long one, too. They'd make their way through the Khumbu Icefall again, pass through Camp One, and venture into the Western Cwm before returning to Camp One to sleep. Alfred stood as Ivan pushed the tent open, preparing to follow the Russian out into the increasingly bustling mess that was Base Camp. "I've been waiting for you," the American said with that mesmerizing smile of his.

"You _have_?" Ivan said, a little surprised. For a while after that awful night at Lobuche, he'd barely looked at Alfred, wondering if he was still disgusted. Now that he'd given in, he couldn't take his eyes off the American, and was constantly wondering what the other man was thinking.

"Yeah, dude! Why would I leave without my climbing buddy?"

_Climbing buddy!_ That phrase echoed in Ivan's mind. For a moment, he felt pure delight. But then he frowned, and he tugged his scarf over his mouth to hide his expression. Buddies – that was all they were? Had he been friend-zoned already? _But you're just fooling yourself if you think Alfred would want a man like you…_ he reminded himself in his head. Having no other choice, Ivan continued forward. He and Alfred joined the already-waiting assembly consisting of Francis, Lopsang, and Feliciano and Ludwig. Today, there were also one or two additional Sherpas to assist as they moved into higher altitudes. Ivan watched the Italian give Ludwig a quick peck on the lips. The German flushed in response. The grin that seemed to devour Feliciano's face was unmistakable; he stood on his toes to better reach the other man, and pulled him into a deep, lingering kiss. If Ivan wasn't mistaken, it looked like there was some tongue in there. He wished Alfred would kiss _him_ like that. Subconsciously, he turned to lock eyes with the American. Ivan felt himself blush. He thought he saw a touch of pink creep into Alfred's cheeks as well. _It's probably just the cold,_ he thought.

The team's climb through the Khumbu Icefall was uneventful today. They were all a little more used to it, especially Feliciano, who now walked across ice ladders without hesitation – provided that Ludwig crossed first. At the top of the icefall, the mountain's face flattened out into the Western Cwm, the valley leading up to the Lhotse Face. The Lhotse Face would carry the team eventually up to Camp Three, which you could see from Camp One. But Camp Two, their next stop in the acclimatization process, was currently hidden from view. Jagged cliff-like structures surrounded the windswept plateau. A gust of wind blasted Ivan's face and ruffled his blonde hair, stinging a little as it met exposed skin. He looked to Alfred. His golden hair blew in his face. Ivan was sure his hair looked awful as the gales mangled it, but Alfred looked rather good with the tangled mess in his bright blue eyes.

They made their way through the amphitheater, a raw valley carved by glacial movements. Angry-looking rock formations rose in every direction, but as they moved through the middle of it, the landscape felt eerily abandoned, like the middle of a boiling desert. And speaking of deserts…sweat beaded on Ivan's forehead and dripped down his face. He swallowed parched air and panted as he pulled his hat from his head and stuffed it into his pack. In a few more minutes, he shed his outer shell and walked around in his down jacket before he took that off, too, now wearing only his fleece zip-up. Others were doing the same. The sun blazed mercilessly. Ivan lifted a water bottle to his lips and drank greedily. If he didn't drink, he'd get another headache.

Instead of thinking about the heat, Ivan focused on his own steady footfalls, the _thunk_ of the crampons in the ice. But soon, the temperature infringed upon every corner of his thoughts. Reluctantly, he removed his scarf, too. He looked to the others. Everyone was pink-cheeked and sweating profusely, except for Lopsang. "Why is it so hot?" Feliciano said. It seemed the Italian was always the one to speak for the group when they all had the same collective thoughts in their heads. "I thought Everest was supposed to be cold."

"Because we're on the _Western Cwm_, dude!" Alfred said in a "well, duh" tone, as if that was self-explanatory enough. Of course, he'd been here before, and probably tended to forget that some of them hadn't.

"Why is the Western Cwm hot, then?" Feliciano probed.

"Because it's…the…Western Cwm?" Alfred repeated, shrugging.

Ludwig piped up in a scholarly, matter-of-fact tone. "The glaciers and mountains surrounding the Western Cwm act as a reflection box," he began. "Light bounces off the glaciers and mountains and gets trapped and reflected back by the snow. The mountains also tend to keep the wind from blowing, from time to time." It sounded as though the German had pulled that quote directly out of a textbook – and perhaps he had. But just as he finished speaking, another gust of wind ripped through the valley. It was as though the mountain itself wanted to disprove all textbook definitions, thus letting everyone know that it couldn't be predicted or measured.

They settled down for dinner at Camp One. Ivan stared at his food for a while before he started eating, which was just about the opposite of what everyone else did: they dug in without mercy, as though they hadn't seen food in weeks. It was those damn memories again, of course. He'd been scolded as a boy – mostly by his father – for being a bit chubby, to the point where he'd get yelled at if he went for a snack after school to hold him over until dinner. But then his stomach grumbled in protest, as if to say, "Hey! Everyone else is stuffing their faces! Catch up!" Ivan started eating. It was at that point he realized he'd been shaking a little, probably from dehydration and lack of food. _I cannot get sick again,_ he told himself, and made a silent promise he'd take better care of himself from this point on. If he got too hung up on the ghosts of his past on this mountain, it could be the death of him – _literally_.

* * *

After dinner, as always, the team retreated to their tents, ready for a good night's sleep. Ivan and Alfred went back to the tent they shared. Ivan yawned, realizing just how tired he felt, and prepared to climb into his sleeping bag before a voice stopped him. "Ivan, can…" Alfred looked a little uncomfortable. Ivan had never seen the self-assured American look even vaguely uncertain before, except perhaps when crossing the first aluminum ladder of the Khumbu Icefall. "Ivan, can I talk to you?"

Ivan's breath caught in his throat. What did Alfred want? Instantly, his mind ran through the worst possible scenarios. Had their summit window vanished – or was there some sort of disaster or catastrophe that could end their ascent? Did his climbing technique suck? Or worse – did Alfred somehow know how Ivan felt about him? It was the last one, wasn't it? He was sure of it. The Russian flinched and braced himself, ready for Alfred to tell him off, to tell him he didn't feel the same way. "_Da_…I suppose…" he said quietly.

"Ivan, I, ah….I kind of feel like…" Alfred fidgeted and fumbled with his words. He toyed absently with the zipper to his fleece jacket, flipping it up and down over and over again. He looked down, trying to avoid meeting Ivan's gaze with those luminous blue eyes. "There's no easy way to…"

"_Da?_" Ivan encouraged. _Just get it over with,_ he pleaded in his mind. _Just tell me you don't want me, like everyone else has._ He bit his lip a little, glancing nervously at the American and waiting for him to continue.

"You know what? No more talking," Alfred asserted all of a sudden. His uncertain smile dissolved into a smirk. He took Ivan's arm and brushed his fingertips against the sensitive skin at the undersides of the Russian's wrist. He leaned forward until their faces were only inches apart and then hesitated for a long moment, staring deep into wide purple eyes with his blue ones. Ivan froze. He was afraid to move – almost afraid to breathe. Was Alfred trying to trick him or something? His breath came in shallowly. The American closed the distance between them until their lips met.

At first, Ivan was motionless with shock. A million thoughts ran through his mind at once: _Is this really happening? Could he have feelings for me, too? Why? _But Alfred silenced them all when he traced Ivan's lower lip with his tongue and pressed deeply into the kiss. The Russian opened his mouth willingly and allowed the American's tongue to slide inside it. That tongue probed his mouth, explored it, ran across its sensitive roof. Soon, Ivan's tongue was searching, too, until it met Alfred's. They slid over each other and seemed to melt together. As the American pulled away slowly, frigid air rushed in, cooling on the thin trail of moisture left on Ivan's lips. He stared wordlessly in disbelief. "A-Alfred…" he said. His mind was numb. "…why?"

"Because…because I like you, that's why!" Alfred said, his tone a little frustrated. Ivan could not tell if that frustration was directed at him, or at Alfred himself.

Those words registered faintly in Ivan's mind, but he could not comprehend or grasp them. All he had wished for in the past two weeks had materialized into reality, against all his expectations. "Why? Why do you like me?" he asked, still trying to wrap his mind around it all.

"Damnit, Ivan, stop making this harder than it already is!" Alfred cried. Then, he let his breath out slowly and took the Russian's hands in his. "Can't you _see_ why someone would like you?"

"_Nyet,_" Ivan said. _Not someone as screwed up as me…_he thought. "You don't know anything about me."

In an unexpectedly edgy voice, Alfred said, "That's because you won't _let_ me know anything about you! You barely talk to me! Hell, you barely talk to anyone!" He stared at Ivan, his blue eyes suddenly probing and searching – searching for answers. But then the American's voice settled. "You can always talk to me." There was a soft expression on Alfred's face, one Ivan had never seen before. It was devoid of its normal cockiness and seemed much more personal. He was right, of course. Ivan didn't really like to talk. He had just assumed no one wanted to listen – no one ever had, so why should they start now? The Russian gave in and smiled at Alfred. That smile was contagious indeed. He felt as though he could trust the man before him, yet for whatever reason, every time he opened his mouth to speak, the right words eluded him.

"All right, it's jus that relationships…don't usually work out for me," Ivan said. A succession of faces flashed through the Russian's mind of all the men he had dated. Many of the names he had forgotten, or he remembered the first names but no longer the full names. They had been lost to the slow march of time, dulling the details but never the pain that accompanied the increasingly vague memories. He never seemed to be able to have a relationship that lasted more than a few months. No matter how hard he tried, he always ended up ruining it – by yelling, getting angry, saying things he didn't mean, pushing the other's buttons and testing them until they cracked, unable to take it anymore. He hated that it had come to this…but here he was, perhaps being given a chance to turn all of that around.

"Just because it was that way in the past, doesn't mean it needs to be that way now," Alfred offered.

Ivan had never thought about it that way. "I suppose," he conceded reluctantly. But then he smiled – a genuine, unstoppable smile, the kind only Alfred had been able to inspire the entire time he'd been in Nepal. He leaned forward and kissed Alfred again, slowly, softly. The touch of their lips was gentler this time – the first time, it had been a little rough and eager, as they'd both been holding back for almost a week, waiting for the other to make the first move. When they broke contact and pulled away, Ivan glanced at the American and chuckled softly. It was a quivering, relieved chuckle that dissolved the tension both had felt since the very first time they had locked eyes at the Kathmandu airport. He cleared his throat and spoke the thought that had been on his mind before, just to confirm that all his worries were irrational: "Are you sure you want someone as screwed up as I am?"

Alfred grinned. "I think I'll take my chances."

* * *

**As always, thanks for reading, and reviews are love :)**


	6. Chapter 6: Camp Two

Ludwig sat with his face buried in his hands. For the past two hours, he'd lain in his sleeping bag, motionless, but still sleep eluded him. It was now close to midnight, he guessed, and they'd have to wake up in five short hours to ascend from Camp One to Camp Two. Thoughts continued to circle endlessly in his mind, chasing away the exhaustion Ludwig knew plagued his body. Every so often, he'd tell himself he was worrying for nothing. He'd calm himself down for a little bit, but soon, those thoughts would once again invade his peace. Right now, he was trying again. _You're an experienced climber,_ he reminded himself. _You've learned all the techniques. You've done all the prep climbs. You've read all the books. You've been through the Himalayas before. You will be fine…_

But once again, it didn't work. He shifted anxiously in the sleeping bag, shivering, since it covered his body only halfway when he sat up like this. Then, Ludwig felt an itching, tickling sensation in his throat and tried desperately not to cough. Feliciano was sleeping next to him. The German didn't want to wake him, and the Italian needed his sleep even more than _he_ did. But soon the sensation was overwhelming, and a series of dry coughs overtook him. "You okay, Luddy?" Feliciano mumbled sleepily.

"Yes, Feli, now go back to sleep," Ludwig said.

"No, you're not okay," the Italian replied persistently.

"The cough is nothing. It will go away soon enough. It is only the altitude."

Feliciano reached out from under his sleeping bag and laid a hand on Ludwig's thigh. "No, I mean, you look worried. What's wrong?"

Ludwig sighed and covered Feliciano's hand with his own. "I just…wonder if maybe I should not have come to Everest," he said. "I could die on this mountain. Was it foolish? I don't want to leave Gilbert all alone…"

Scooting in closer, Feliciano placed his head in Ludwig's lap. "Oh, _mio tesoro…_" The German flinched at that nickname, but didn't say anything. He wondered if he hadn't spent his whole life being too rigid and conservative about relationships. The Italian had given him no reason to doubt what they shared so far. "…don't be worried. You're so good. We all have to know we could die up here. But we're careful, and you're a great climber. It's going to be fine." He stroked Ludwig's thigh innocently.

"I suppose," he said, but even Feliciano's words didn't succeed in calming him down. He was about to slide back down into his sleeping bag and try again to get some sleep, but then he looked into the Italian's eyes and decided against continuing to hide his past from the other man. "Feli, something happened on a climb once. I've never been able to fully relax on a mountain since then."

Feliciano gazed up at him, nose pressed against the inside of Ludwig's thigh. "I'm listening," he said with a smile.

"A friend and I were climbing in the Andes in South America," Ludwig continued. "It was just the two of us. We went with minimal equipment. We had heard of people doing that and thought it would be fun. We thought it would help us get in touch with the mountain or something. Everything was going so well and we were feeling great, so we pushed for the summit even though the weather was looking bad. On the way down, he fell into a crevasse and got stuck there. I could not get him out. He told me to go on. I descended as fast as I could and got help, but by the time I got back to him, he was dead. I promised myself I would never be so careless again."

"Oh I'm so sorry, _mio tesoro!_" Feliciano cried. "I feel awful now. Here I am getting scared, and nothing bad has ever happened to me on a climb. You're the one who actually has a reason to be scared." Ludwig could barely see Feliciano in the low light, but he could tell those eyes were filled with guilt.

He reached down and ruffled the Italian's hair. He wanted to cry for his lost friend, but he wouldn't, not in front of Feliciano. He felt that there was something deep within him telling him that he should protect and comfort Feliciano, not the other way around. He couldn't explain this feeling, but it was there. "_Nein_, Feliciano, don't feel bad. That was four years ago. Everest is a difficult mountain. I would be worried if you were _not_ a little scared crossing the Icefall." Ludwig and Hans had been only twenty-four at the time – young and stupid, as he said now. Had Hans lived, he would turn twenty-eight a week from today. He'd expected the sadness and the apprehension to dull with time, but it only renewed itself each time he began a new ascent. He loved ice climbing like he loved nothing else in his life, yet at the same time, he was afraid of its unpredictable power. "I'm the one who should feel bad," he said slowly. He'd never talked to anyone other than Gilbert as much as he talked to Feliciano, but something about the Italian just made him feel at ease. "I feel as though I am the reason Hans' parents didn't get their son back."

"Don't, Luddy," Feliciano said. "It's not your fault. It was both of you. I'm sure he knew the dangers of climbing when he went up there. Besides, you could have gotten killed if you'd done any more. Then I never would have met you." He looked as though he was about ready to fall asleep with his head in Ludwig's lap.

Ludwig smiled a little. That _did_ make him feel better. "_Ja,_ that is true," he admitted. Gently, he lifted the Italian's head and shifted it back onto the pillow so he could lie down himself. Feliciano crawled back into his own sleeping bag and laid still for a moment or two before he scooted it over toward Ludwig. He draped an arm around the German's body from behind, pressing his nose into the back of Ludwig's neck. He flinched again at that touch, but again said nothing to stop Feliciano. Though he would never admit it aloud, it was good to feel wanted like this.

"Lovino never lets me sleep with him like this anymore," Feliciano said, his words running together as they had earlier. It sounded as though he could nod off at any second.

"Hmm, I wonder why," Ludwig said sarcastically.

"I like being close to someone when I sleep. It helps me sleep better. It's nice…especially when it's you."

"_What_?" the German shot back incredulously. "Feli, we barely even know each other…" Then, he added in his head, _I think I give up on trying to understand you._

"_Si_, but sometimes you just get a feeling about someone. I have a good feeling about you." The Italian had now shifted his sleeping bag until it was bunched up against Ludwig's.

Wasn't Feliciano right, though? Didn't he feel the same way? Why else would he have jumped into a relationship so quickly when doing so was against his nature – against the very fiber of his being?

* * *

Feliciano had gotten up this morning without complaints. That was kind of a first for him! Ludwig seemed proud of himself at that. They started back out into the Western Cwm. This time, the loose, powdery snow covering the valley remained deathly still. Not a single breeze stirred. The heat today felt even worse than it had before, where it beat down mercilessly on the team. Last night, the group had scrambled to find things to hold down the corners of the tents as gales ripped through the valley. Their panic had been punctuated by the occasional obscenity Alfred had directed at the uncooperative weather. Not much about the weather this year on Everest _had_ been ideal as of yet. They were all just praying for things to get better.

He was also feeling much stronger. Up until now, he'd panted under the crushing load of his pack, which was the heaviest he'd ever carried in all his four years of climbing. Breathing was a little bit easier now. Well, they _had_ been climbing at considerable altitudes for a while now. Feliciano paused to think about this. How long had they been here? His sense of time on the mountain was completely distorted. Some days, time seemed to slip away right before his eyes. Other days, he felt like he had been on Everest for a lifetime already. He mentally counted the days. "Can you all believe today makes exactly three weeks since we got to Kathmandu?" the Italian thought aloud.

"Three weeks, huh?" Alfred said. "Great job, everyone! We're making pretty good time, especially considering we stayed a bit longer at Lobuche than planned." He offered everyone a big smile, and then turned to Ivan. His smile turned softer when he glanced into the Russian's purple eyes. Seeming not to pay any mind to the rest of the group, he took Ivan's face in his hands and kissed him. It was a long, deep kiss, and the rest of the group halted and gawked at the pair, except for Ludwig, who stared back at them impatiently. He rose one eyebrow and gave Feliciano a look that said, "Come on, let's keep moving!" Francis was smirking. Feliciano smiled, feeling warm and happy. He was glad Alfred and Ivan had finally kissed! They'd been looking at each other like they wanted to for the past week or so. Alfred pulled away, and a genuine smile graced the Russian's lips. Feliciano thought he looked happier than he'd ever been before. As they continued to walk, Francis nudged Alfred in the arm and muttered something indistinct to him. Alfred just rolled his eyes.

After a while, their route curved to the right. Huge crevasses, even larger than the ones in the Khumbu Icefall, were visible to their left. They looked as though they could swallow the team whole in one fell swoop. Feliciano was glad they wouldn't cross those crevasses! Instead, they ascended a narrow passageway known as the Nuptse Corner. It would provide their first access to the Lhotse Face, along with their first views of the rest of the mountain, which had not been visible from Base Camp. Feliciano paused and looked up as they crossed. There it was, distant but visible: Everest's distinctive, jagged summit, miles ahead of them, a spangle of snow blowing from it. For a moment, the Italian forgot to breathe. It looked so glorious and triumphant. And it looked as though it was _waiting for them_. Once he became short of breath, Feliciano inhaled deeply and blinked at the summit. He took out his camera and snapped shots of every angle of the peak. The scene was a reminder of everything they'd worked for over the past three weeks. Sometimes, you could forget, especially over the Icefall, when jangled nerves had a way of making all else fall away.

Feliciano glanced at Ludwig, who was staring with an unmoving gaze into the gigantic crevasse to their left rather than at the summit. For a moment, he wondered why. Everyone else's eyes were trained upwards. Then he realized: Ludwig was thinking of his friend, who'd died by falling into a crevasse. He made his way back to the German and took one of the man's gloved hands in his own. "Luddy, come on. Don't look at it. Looking will only make you feel worse," he said firmly. "Come on, look at the summit instead." He tugged at Ludwig's hand. When he didn't budge, Feliciano leaned up and kissed the other man, first on the cheek, and then on the lips.

Ludwig turned and smiled. "All right," he said, and followed Feliciano. Together, they joined the rest of the group and admired the vertical view. But the German still looked a little sad, even though he didn't say another word.

"I know, I know," Feliciano soothed without letting go of Ludwig's hand. "It's all right."

"Thank you," Ludwig said and kissed him back. The melancholy quality faded from his smile.

As the group started to move on up the incline of the Lhotse Face, which would be an almost entirely vertical walk up to Camp Two, Feliciano started to think. The way Ludwig had hesitated ever so slightly over those ladders in the Khumbu Icefall had not been from uncertainty over the integrity of the ladders, but from the weight of painful memories and lasting guilt. The Italian wished he'd noticed Ludwig's silent suffering before. He should have been there to comfort him, as the German had done for him.

But what Feliciano wasn't thinking about was the fact that, just now, the tables had turned. Back in the Icefall, Ludwig had put aside his own reservations to encourage the Italian to cross the ice ladders. Now, Feliciano had done the same for Ludwig, succeeding in pulling the German's gaze away from that never-ending chasm at the middle of the Western Cwm that was jammed against the side of the Lhotse Face. They had traded places for the moment, and the Italian hadn't even realized it.

They began their ascent of the Lhotse Face. Everyone in the group attached small mechanical devices called jumars to their harnesses with pieces of webbing, and then attached the jumars to the fixed line that ran the whole way up the face. The jumars were further fastened to the ropes by carabineers. Alfred led the group today, followed by Ivan, Ludwig, and Feliciano. Francis, Lopsang, and an additional Sherpa were toward the back. This was the common order they now fell into as a default each time they ascended up a vertical face. They climbed while sliding the jumar up with one hand and using the ice axe in the other hand. Just over the top, Camp Two was barely visible, like a mirage in the distance. It seemed it would take forever to reach, though Alfred had reassured the team they would arrive in only a few hours. At first, everyone had talked quietly. But after a while, the conversation stopped. It was clear that each group member was getting tired. The only audible sounds were the regular rhythms made by their crampons and ice axes. _Kick, kick, thunk!_ Two pairs of crampons dug into the ice, followed by the point of the axe. It became like a musical drumbeat, punctuated occasionally by the faint sounds made as the jumar slid up the fixed rope.

"How long until we get there?" Feliciano heard Ivan ask.

"About forty-five minutes," Alfred said. The Russian looked weary. Feliciano, however, felt fine. Back home, he liked to play football – Alfred would probably call it soccer – which gave him pretty good leg strength. But he noticed even the American looked a bit tired. Maybe they were simply at the point of the expedition in which their strength would start to abandon them, their bodies having been pushed to the edge of exhaustion for close to a month now. The adrenaline would kick in, though, as they approached Camp Four, and with it, the promise of the summit.

An immeasurable span of time passed that felt like an hour, but in reality was only about fifteen minutes. _Kick, kick, thunk_ could be heard all around. Until, from somewhere far above Feliciano's head, the rhythm was broken: _Kick, thunk…._ Silence. Then, there was a whooshing sound a crampon fell through the air. Feliciano saw it flash by, and in a knee-jerk reaction, he pressed himself against the mountain face to avoid being hit. Then, there was a loud _smack!_ as Francis reached out to try and grab it. "Whose is this?" he called up.

"It's mine!" Alfred shouted back. He sounded completely panicked. Feliciano had never heard him sound quite that way before. The American was hanging from the ice face by one foot. He had a death grip on the handle of his ice axe, and he glanced down at Francis as the color drained from his face. "Do you have it, Francis?"

"_Non…d__é__sol__é__…"_ Francis muttered.

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" Alfred yelled in response.

Feliciano now glanced down at those climbing behind him. The Frenchman was holding the ice axe and the fixed rope in one hand, and held the other hand up to his face. He peered at it with concern. Feliciano saw that the fabric of his gloves was ripped, and that his hand was bleeding. The crampon must have struck his hand as he tried to grab it out of the air, but he must not have been able to grip it. Instead, it had glanced off Francis' hand and tumbled to the ground, perhaps hundreds of feet below them.

"Francis! You're hurt!" Feliciano cried. He felt bad for him and for Alfred.

"_Ce n'est rien, _it's nothing, really," Francis said. But Feliciano knew better. The bleeding wasn't the problem – it was the torn glove. Soon, the cold would seep through, and it could lead to frostbite. They all had an extra pair or two of gloves in their packs, but it was almost impossible to get to when they had one hand on the rope and the other on their ice axes.

Alfred was breathing heavily now. "Well, _now _what the fuck do I do?"

Everyone was silent. They all looked at each other. Feliciano felt powerless to help either Francis or Alfred. "Can we back-climb down and get the crampon?" the Italian asked. Yes, it would take a long time, but it was too difficult to climb on just one!

"_Nyet,_" Ivan said out of nowhere. "We can't. The jumars won't slide the other way. They only slide up. We have to keep going like that…and hope Alfred's jumar doesn't break if he starts to fall." Jumars only slid in one direction; they locked into place if they started to move in the opposite direction, theoretically stopping the climber from falling. But with Alfred maintaining only two points of contact with the ice at his axe and the other crampon, there was no room for any of the other equipment to fail. Francis shrugged. Alfred nodded, looking absolutely petrified.

They had no choice to continue. Their progress was painfully slow. Alfred had to jam his bare climbing boot into the ice and lean on his ice axe as he carefully stepped up with the one foot that still had the crampon attached. Francis had to grab the rope tenderly with his wounded hand. Feliciano felt that he was moving in slow motion. Camp Two seemed to never get closer. Once, Alfred's bare boot slipped on the ice, and the rope creaked as he lost balance. Feliciano's breath caught in his throat. He could see that all the other climbers, including Ivan, wore similar horrified expressions. If Alfred fell, he would take them all down with him, since he was in front!

At last, they reached Camp Two. It took them two hours rather than the forty-five minutes they had originally planned on. When they reached the top of the slope, Alfred released a quivering breath and started to slide to his knees. Ivan caught him by the waist and hauled him to his feet, pressing a kiss to his cheek and whispering something low into his ear. He unhooked the remaining crampon and hobbled into camp, still looking as though he'd seen a ghost. The rest of the team followed. Once they got into camp, Francis pulled off his ripped right glove and examined his hand. There was a very pale blue tint to the skin beneath the ripped portions. He sighed and started treating himself for mild frostbite. Lopsang spoke up. "Pasang and I will descend and retrieve your crampon, Alfred," he said. Alfred nodded stiffly. It was already starting to get dark outside. The Sherpas knew this route well, and could climb it better than the others with limited visibility.

Lopsang and the other Sherpa were gone. Francis was recovering. Alfred was deeply shaken, and Ivan's arms were wrapped around him, so Ludwig took charge and started boiling water for the team's dinner. In two hours, they ate dal bhat, a Nepalese dish with lentil beans and rice. The Sherpas returned carrying Alfred's crampon after all traces of light had vanished in the sky. Having spent far more time climbing that day than they had intended, everyone settled in for a much-deserved rest.

* * *

"Damn, that freaked me the fuck out," Alfred said as he lay on his back staring at the roof of the tent. In all his years of climbing, he had lost a crampon only once before, and that was because he'd been young and had not secured it properly to his climbing boot. He was still shaking a little, his heart rattling in his chest. Yes, he'd been fixed to the Lhotse Face with ropes and jumars, but if either had failed, it was doubtful he could have stopped himself and the rest of the team from falling more than a hundred feet.

"_Da_, I've noticed," Ivan said, a little smugly. Alfred stared at the Russian without amusement. He wore a tranquil smile, as if he were completely unaware that Alfred could have injured or killed them both had anything else gone wrong today. It was funny – without warning, Ivan's expression could darken, like unexpected rain clouds on a sunny day, when memories of his past suddenly invaded his reality. But during what Alfred felt were the most terrifying moments of their ascent, Ivan kept more composed than anyone else in the group. He hadn't even come close to figuring the Russian out yet, but that was part of the fun of all of this.

Alfred opened his mouth to respond, but for a moment was lost in the look of those purple eyes as the silver moonlight shone through the tent and reflected off them. They were fluctuating pools of light, beautiful against the grim and featureless veil of night. Then, Alfred remembered himself, and for a moment felt dazed, as though he'd just woken up from a wonderful dream. "You think that's funny, do you?" he asked.

Ivan shook his head and rolled over to face Alfred. "_Nyet…_it is only…you were cute when you were freaked out."

Sighing, Alfred replied, "I'm _still_ freaked out."

Ivan wiggled halfway out of his sleeping bag and pulled Alfred into his arms again. The American's first instinct was to struggle, to push the Russian away. He was much too proud to admit that he wanted Ivan to hold him – or that he needed to be comforted in the first place. But on the other hand, it felt much too good. So he just said nothing and let himself be tugged along like a rag doll as Ivan hugged him to his chest. "You're still shaking," Ivan said, as if it was critical that he point that out.

"Oh, would you shut it?"

"What did you do for a living before you were a guide?" Ivan asked. Alfred twisted halfway around to peer into the Russian's face. He was smiling sweetly as if their entire last conversation had not happened at all.

Though he wanted to protest and question the sudden shift in topic, Alfred knew it had been _him_ who'd insisted they could talk about anything to each other in the first place. "I worked for the National Park Service at Denali National Park in Alaska," he said. "Before that, I worked at Arches National Park."

Ivan hummed, pleased. "Ah, Alaska," he said. "That's close to Russia. What do you dream of, Alfred?"

"Why are you asking me these questions?"

The Russian chuckled. "I don't know, I want to know more about you. Besides, you said I don't talk enough. So I'm talking."

Alfred didn't even have to think about his answer. "I've always dreamed of starting my own guide service."

"That's a nice dream."

"Okay, how about you, Ivan? What do you dream of?"

Ivan's lips were now against the back of Alfred's neck. He mumbled, "Ah, just to be happy. I wouldn't care what I do as long as I was happy."

Alfred couldn't help but grin at that. In a way, Ivan's dreams were so much simpler than his, yet simultaneously so much more complex. And in a way, they were more perfect. Alfred could open his own guide service and make all the money in the world and still be unhappy. There were certainly things he could learn from this enigmatic Russian.

* * *

**Not much to say about this chapter!**

**As always, thanks for reading, and please review!**

**Up next: Camp 3, what else?**


	7. Chapter 7: Camp Three

**So sorry this chapter took a bit longer to post than I intended! I was beyond tired for much of the last week.**

* * *

Feliciano was awakened by the sounds of his own coughs – dry, staccato sounds that punctuated the whistling of the wind as it tore through the tents at Camp Two. His body shivered in time with each cough. It was funny how something as simple as a contraction of the lungs had the power to move the whole of his slight figure, to exhaust him thoroughly, to make him ache all over. When that particular bout of coughing subsided, he lay motionless in his sleeping bag, staring into nothingness. He whimpered, every inch of his body screaming desperately for sleep. The surge of new energy he and Ivan had both seemed to gain after they'd recovered from altitude sickness had subsided for him over the past few days they'd spent acclimatizing at Camp Two. It abandoned him as waves would recede at low tide, leaving Feliciano feeling as though he would crack from fatigue. Ivan's wave of strength, though, seemed to have lasted. The Italian was a little jealous of that.

Coughs overtook Feliciano again. Ludwig stirred next to him. The exact day the German's cough had vanished, Feliciano's had started, as if to take its place, as if Everest was not content to leave the team without injury or ailment. "Feli?" Ludwig mumbled. "Are you all right? Would you like me to wake Francis and get you some medicine?"

"N-no," Feliciano replied in a hoarse voice. "I just want to sleep, but I can't."

"That's normal," Ludwig said. "It happens sometimes at these altitudes. Here, come here." The German sat up and held out his arms.

Though he was tired and sore, a smile cracked through the somber veil of Feliciano's expression. He got up and plunked himself down in Ludwig's lap, resting his head against the other man's chest. He felt cold all over and tried to nuzzle further into the warmth the body against his provided.

Ludwig rested his head against Feliciano's and held him close. "You're shivering," he said, in a tone of voice that was warmer and more intimate than Feliciano ever heard him use before. "Have you lost weight?"

"Don't we all lose weight on Everest?" Feliciano replied. It was true. He'd read before coming on the expedition that it was a common occurrence.

"_Ja_, but…you don't have much extra weight to lose. You must eat more. If you don't, your body will run out of fat to eat and start eating muscle instead."

Feliciano could tell Ludwig was watching out for him, but he couldn't help but laugh, a light, breathy laugh that was soon consumed by coughs. "Oh, Luddy, do you always talk like you're reading out of a textbook?"

"That's just the way I always talk," Ludwig said. "So…yes, I suppose?" He ran his hands slowly up and down Feliciano's arms in an attempt to keep him warm. Somehow, in Ludwig's arms, Feliciano's eyelids started to droop all on their own. How good it felt to close his eyes while surrounded in the German's warmth. "_Ja_, that's right…get some sleep, Feli," Ludwig said, and pressed a kiss to the Italian's cheek. It was almost magical, the calming effect the German had on him. As he finally gave in to exhaustion, a single thought crossed his mind: today marked one month since they had arrived in Kathmandu – one month since the day he had first laid eyes on his Ludwig.

* * *

In the morning, they prepared to ascend to Camp Three. They'd have to continue up the Lhotse Face, traversing thousands of vertical feet of rock-hard blue ice, in order to reach the lonely outpost on a tilted slab of land that marked the next step in their journey to the summit. Alfred looked wary as he eyed the route ahead of him. He bent and strapped on his crampons, glanced around, bent to tighten them, straightened again, and then bent to check them one last time. Usually Alfred wasn't so careful, but the incident on the way to Camp Two had clearly shaken him up. Feliciano guessed Alfred had never experienced such a close call before. Picking up on the tense mood in the air, Feliciano double-checked and then triple-checked his crampons as well. Something felt…off about today. He couldn't explain what it was. It just felt as though his and Ivan's illnesses at Lobuche and the incident with Alfred's crampon a few days ago were the first in a long line of troubles on the mountain. Something told him they should all turn back and just give up on the summit. But then, Feliciano glanced at Ludwig, who aimed an easy, unrestrained smile at him, and he realized he was probably just being silly. Everest was a bigger challenge than he'd ever had before, and the recent incident had just freaked him out a little bit. It was normal. Perhaps it just meant they'd all be more careful in the future, which couldn't be a bad thing.

Besides, Feliciano wanted to reach the summit much too badly to turn back at this point. He felt as though it was his duty, his calling. It would be shameful to just give up. He had to prove to his mother, his father, Lovino, and anyone who had ever doubted him that _he could do this!_ He had always been a sensitive kid growing up. He had become a favorite target of school bullies when they discovered that he was friendly and trusted easily, yet was just as easy to break, and could often start crying at the drop of a hat. He had gotten better since then, but he had still never _really _changed. His trusting nature had gotten him into even worse trouble at the university, but he didn't even want to think about _that_. Either way, the result was that his family, teachers, and other adults treated him as though he were a fragile, frightened little puppy who had to be protected from experiencing anything that could potentially be too emotionally or physically demanding. Even Lovino, who was three years older than he was, had been determined to keep Feliciano on a short leash. He still treated Feliciano as though he were that eight-year-old boy who clung to his older brother in tears at recess when the bullies had been after him again. Well, they were all wrong. He could do this. He was strong enough, tough enough to reach the summit of Everest!

They started again up the Lhotse Face. At first, the climb was uneventful, especially compared to the trek up to Camp Two. Now that they were getting close to the summit window, there were more other teams around them on the mountain. They passed Scott Fischer's group and greeted them warmly as they went around them. Scott's group was commercial as well, but was at least twice the size of the Summit Adventures team, so Alfred led the rest of them around the larger expedition. They had to unclip their jumars from the rope if they wanted to step around other climbers. Everyone did this extremely slowly and carefully, not wanting a repeat of previous events. But they made it without commotion, and continued up the wall of ice with a renewed sense of confidence.

That was until Francis called up from below, "_Arretez! Tout le monde!_" It was unlikely Francis realized he was yelling in his native language. Feliciano glanced down to find the medic's face contorted with concern.

"Oh, God, what now?" Alfred yelled as everyone froze. "Who lost a crampon this time?"

"No one," Francis replied. "But…it's Lopsang. He's coughing up blood."

It seemed that everyone's eyes widened in collective panic. Even though Feliciano was not as well read about mountaineering as the others were – especially Ludwig – he knew full well what that meant. High altitude pulmonary edema. The mere suggestion of that condition was enough to turn the Italian's blood cold and make his pulse race. It was a buildup of fluid in the lungs at high altitudes in otherwise healthy climbers. And, if not treated quickly, it could be fatal. Feliciano had seen it happen once before to a Swiss man by the name of Vash on one of his climbs with Roderich in the Alps, and ever since then, he had prayed to never see it again. Luckily, they'd been able to help Vash down the mountain to receive treatment, and he'd recovered, but it had still been nerve-wracking. Lopsang _had_ been coughing and looking tired ever since he'd made the extra trip last week to retrieve Alfred's fallen crampon. But he hadn't said a word, hadn't mentioned his condition to anyone, not even Francis. _Wait, that couldn't be what…I have, could it?_ Feliciano thought in horror. No, no, it couldn't be. He just had an ordinary cough, right?

"Jesus fucking Christ," Alfred breathed. Lopsang was their head Sherpa, and helped in the critical planning and set-up along the route. The concern over his condition was completely understandable. "So, what do we do? We have to keep going to Camp Three and then take him back down, don't we?"

"_Oui,"_ Francis said.

"I'll go with you back down once we get there," Alfred said.

"_Non…_Alfred, you are the expedition leader. You need to stay with the team. Once Lopsang and I are gone, you are the only one who knows the plans for the expedition. I will go alone."

Ivan turned and looked up at Alfred from his place just below the American. Feliciano had caught the Russian sneaking glances at Alfred's ass, and he could sympathize, as he'd done just the same thing with Ludwig! "_Nyet_, Francis, what if you need someone to carry Lopsang? Pasang cannot go. We need a Sherpa to stay with the group. I will go with you," he said.

Francis nodded hesitantly. "Okay, that would be all right."

They all continued up the Lhotse Face, including Lopsang, who moved slowly at the back of the group. Sherpas weren't supposed to get sick. They were supposed to be used to the altitude. To Feliciano, the Sherpa's illness was like a cold confirmation of his concerns.

* * *

Francis, Lopsang, and Ivan had to stay at Camp Three for the night. They planned to wake up extra-early the next morning to descend all the way back to Camp One, where a helicopter would come and lift Lopsang back to safety. Ivan was concerned Lopsang would die if they waited until morning to begin their descent. Yes, it was true, they could risk the Sherpa's life by waiting. But they could risk all three of their lives if they descended all the way back down the Lhotse Face in pitch darkness. Ascending an ice face like this was relatively easy for a seasoned climber in the daytime, but after nightfall, it became dangerous. Though he usually fell asleep rather quickly, tonight Ivan tossed and turned, worries about the remainder of their ascent suddenly filling his head.

Francis came into Ivan's tent at an ungodly hour the next morning. The Russian grumbled and roused himself wearily. He hated to have to get up so early, but a strange sense of duty overcame him. The three dressed, ate (well, Lopsang didn't have much of an appetite), and strapped on their crampons to begin their descent.

As they started back down the Lhotse Face, the sun had just started to rise, barely breaking the veil of the night. Lopsang was deathly pale. He struggled to perform the most basic climbing movements that must have once come second nature to him. Their descent was slow and labored. Ivan allowed the short, stocky Sherpa to lean on him from time to time as they approached Camp Two. The Russian's mind began to wander. If he didn't do something to occupy it, his thoughts would probably return to worries about the success of their expedition…or worse, to his dark and clouded past. Francis was probably having the same concerns, as he broke the silence: "So, you and Alfred_?_"

"_Da!_" Ivan replied brightly. Hearing Alfred's name was certainly more than enough to distract him from the awful situation they were in. "He…he's wonderful."

"_Oui,_ that he is!" Francis said. "I have worked with him for four years now. I could not have asked to be paired with a better guide."

"And that has nothing to do with the fact that you're dating his cousin?" Ivan shot back. As bad as it was that he and the Frenchman had to help Lopsang back down to Camp One, it would give him a chance to get to know the medic better. Francis was always pleasant and flirtatious, so Ivan was sure he wouldn't mind a little joking around.

Francis chuckled good-naturedly and shook his head. "Ah, _cher_ Ivan, you are so funny! That is part of it, _oui._ But Alfred is a good man."

Questions still loomed in Ivan's mind, uncertainties that would continue to gnaw at his insides until he had answers. Hesitantly, he asked, "And you don't think Alfred would…leave me, do you?"

Francis turned a pair of concerned blue eyes toward Ivan. His upbeat expression turned somber. "Oh, poor _cher_, you're worried, aren't you? _Non,_ I don't think he would. I mean, Alfred has…had his fair share of women who didn't last. But I know Al. I can tell he likes you. He cares about you. I doubt he would just leave."

"Are you s-" Ivan's sentence was cut off as Lopsang gave a shuddering cry and let go of the rope. He bounced and the whole rope shuddered under his weight. But his harness attached him to the rope, and he flopped against the mountain face as he coughed, spewing bright red blood against the pristine blue-white ice. Ivan's hand shot out to steady the flailing Sherpa. "You've _got _to grab the rope," he insisted. Lopsang nodded. The color had drained from his tanned face. He took the rope again, which stopped quivering. They all continued on. "Are you sure, Francis?" Ivan finished.

"Fairly sure…why? Did something happen to you, Ivan?"

"My father, he…_nyet._" He'd gotten used to talking to Alfred a little about his past, but for some reason, now that someone new was probing him about it, he shut down, not wanting to offer any more information.

"Ivan, you know you can talk to me," Francis said. "We are all friends on this expedition."

"All right…my father hit me, and my sisters too, but mostly me. When he found out I was dating boys…it was bad," Ivan said, the image of Toris' terrified green eyes returning to his mind.

Francis tilted his head, looking genuinely concerned. "How so?"

Ivan nodded vaguely. "The first boy I ever dated, his name was Toris. Toris Laurinaitis. A sweet, nervous little Lithuanian."

"Cute?" Francis asked.

"_Da_. We were at my house. Just as we start undressing, my father comes in, _da_? He starts yelling. Calls me a…fag. He hits me. He throws Toris down. The next day at school, I tell Toris I am sorry for what happened. He says he can't be with me any longer because he is afraid of my father. I beg him. He says no. I lose it, start yelling at him. Now Toris is afraid of _me_, too. A few days later, I tell him I am so sorry. He forgives me, but we do not get back together. He dates Feliks, a Polish boy. Feliks gets to be Toris' first. That was supposed to be _me, da?_ They do not last. I end up fucking Feliks, just because I could. But I feel guilty. I think of Toris. Then we graduate. Toris goes to university in Saint Petersburg, but I stay in Moscow. I never saw him again."

Ivan looked up at Francis in surprise as he finished speaking. Had he _really _just unloaded that whole story on the Frenchman? "Sorry," he said quickly, lowering his eyes again.

"Don't be." They did not speak for a moment. The only sounds were the echoes of the wind, the _thunk_ of their crampons and ice axes, and Lopsang's deep coughs. "You still have feelings for him?" Francis asked finally.

"Toris? _Nyet,_" Ivan said and laughed humorlessly. "That was a long time ago. Toris is…how do those Americans say? History. But Alfred?" He locked eyes with Francis. "He is…a different story." Ivan just wished he could have kept Toris from getting hurt. "After that, I managed to ruin every relationship I ever had."

"Oh, Ivan, I'm so sorry that happened to you," Francis said. "But…you must have hope."

Ivan smiled. With Alfred, he was beginning to see that his own history didn't always have to repeat itself.

They reached Camp Two and rested a while before moving back through the Western Cwm, which was windless and silent today. Lopsang collapsed as they stepped into the expansive valley. True to his word, Ivan took the Sherpa in his arms and carried him laboriously onward. At Camp One, a helicopter was already waiting for them. The blasts of its whirling blades sent snow in their faces. Other climbers at the site paused and stared as Lopsang was placed in a Gamow bag and loaded into the chopper. Gamow bags were inflatable pressure bags meant to simulate lower altitudes, and would help climbers who were suffering from severe altitude sickness. Once Lopsang was flown away, Francis and Ivan breathed exhausted sighs of relief and retreated toward their tents, which had remained set up at Camp One. Barely staying awake to choke down a hurried dinner, they soon flopped down onto their sleeping bags, fully fatigued from having climbed for nearly eight hours that day. They would return to the rest of the group at Camp Three tomorrow and try to regroup.

* * *

There was nothing to do at Camp Three. The slab of ice upon which it was situated was tilted, so it was easy to slip and fall right off the Lhotse Face. Climbers tried to avoid leaving their tents as much as possible. Ludwig sat on Feliciano's sleeping bag next to the Italian. He ran his fingers absently through that auburn hair. A bit bored, he twisted that one random curl between his thumb and pointer finger, playing with it. "Hey, Ludwig, what do you think you're doing?" Feliciano asked, his voice a little strained. His face looked stiff.

"What do you mean?" Ludwig said. He had no idea what the Italian was talking about. He kept playing with that curl.

Feliciano mumbled something indistinct in Italian and fidgeted uncomfortably. Ludwig glanced at him, blinked, and shook his head. For whatever reason, the Italian was half-hard. Feliciano turned to face him and placed both hands over Ludwig's cock.

Ludwig said, surprised, "Now it's my turn to ask – what are _you_ doing?"

"You started it," Feliciano accused jokingly. Now Ludwig was truly lost. How had he started it? He reached down to grab Feliciano's hands and pull them away, but as he did, the Italian relaxed visibly. Oh, it was the _curl_, the German realized with an amused smirk. But instead of leaving it alone, he took it purposely back between his fingers again, reaching all the way to the curl's root and rolling it back and forth. Feliciano's hands on him felt much too good to resist, especially since they shattered the mind-numbing boredom he felt from being cooped up in that tent all evening.

But Feliciano didn't stop at gently touching between Ludwig's legs. He shifted his weight forward, and all of a sudden, Ludwig had a lap full of Italian. His legs wrapped around the German's waist, and he started to roll his hips back and forth slowly, rubbing their erections together. Both of them were now fully hard, and Feliciano was eyeing him with pent-up desire shining in those gorgeous brown eyes. Ludwig wondered if he had the same look in his own eyes. The Italian kissed him, much harder than he usually kissed, and their tongues met roughly. The kiss was broken early as they both pulled apart to gasp for air, their breaths shortened at the high altitudes. However, Feliciano was relentless, and his lips met Ludwig's jawbone, lightly this time. He placed a series of butterfly kisses along the length of it until he reached the German's earlobe, which he nibbled on gently. This was really too much for Ludwig to handle. He slid a hand beneath the waistband of Feliciano's pants, wanting to _feel_ the skin underneath, and held onto the other man's slender hip. His other hand started to undo the buttons and zipper of the Italian's pants before he stopped cold. "Are…are we really going to do this?" he asked.

"Of course!" Feliciano grinned. "Why not?"

Ludwig's face flushed bright red. "I don't have any lubricant," he said. "It would be rather, ah…painful at these altitudes without it, wouldn't it?"

The Italian laughed and pulled away from Ludwig to fish inside his bag for something. "Oh, don't worry!" he chirped. "I've got some!' He pulled a roll of clothing from inside the bag, stuck a hand inside the roll, and withdrew a little tube. "It would freeze otherwise," he explained good-naturedly.

"W-wait, you _brought_ that…to _Everest?_" Ludwig shook his head in disbelief.

Feliciano continued grinning, shameless. "Well, you never know where and when you're going to meet someone you really care about," he said innocently. Ludwig was touched by that purity, the simplicity and beauty of the Italian's intentions. For a moment, he thought it might be wrong to ruin something that pure. But Feliciano's words had the opposite effect on Ludwig's resolve, driving him crazy with need and desire for the other man. They undressed quickly, their fingers working with lightness and precision at every inch of fabric clinging to their bodies.

Just when the German felt he would not be able to wait another moment, Feliciano stuck his face rather unceremoniously between Ludwig's legs. He kissed the tip of the German's member, once, twice, three times…Ludwig started to lose count as little jolts of pleasure began to invade his body. Now, he was running his tongue around its rim, slowly, carefully, as though they had all the time in the world – as if they both weren't painfully hard already. Feliciano tongue-kissed the tip of Ludwig's erection a few more times before he started to lick all the way up and down it, his tongue managing to find its way almost magically into every tiny groove in its path. God, that felt so _good!_ Feliciano was only twenty-two years old…how did he learn to use his tongue like that? Ludwig was six years his senior, and _he_ didn't even know how to do that! He was lost in indescribable waves of pleasure when the Italian stopped licking and took the firm cock in his mouth. "F-Feli…" the German stammered. The sensation was overwhelming. Involuntarily, he jerked his hips, and Feliciano gagged and coughed, eyes watering as though he'd been slapped in the face. "Oh, I-I'm so sorry…" His cheeks turned every shade of red imaginable.

"Ith okay," the Italian said through a full mouth, which muffled and muddled his words. He took more of Ludwig in his mouth, which the German didn't even think was possible.

"Feliciano…I-I can't stand it any longer…can we just…please?" Ludwig begged.

The Italian complied and pulled his mouth away. Ludwig grabbed the tube of lubricant, squeezed some out into his hands, and rubbed it on. Feliciano got on his hands and knees and looked back at Ludwig with glinting copper-brown eyes. "What are you waiting for?" the Italian said.

"_Mein Gott,_ what kind of lovers have you _had_, Feli?" Ludwig asked, a little incredulously. Of all the people Ludwig had met in his entire life, Feliciano was the absolute _last_ one who deserved to be fucked like a whore! He was much too sweet, too good, too pure for that. The German was filled with a sudden, overwhelming desire to find whoever had treated Feliciano like this and teach them a very harsh lesson! "_Nein, meine schatz…_" Ludwig hesitated for a moment. He had never grown comfortable with using those little terms of endearment, but he knew Feliciano would like it. And somehow, he was different than anyone else he'd ever been with before. "…_meine schatz,_ lie down facing me, please. I would like to look into your eyes."

Feliciano's eyes widened. "Okay," he said, a little unsteadily, and obliged.

Ludwig bent over Feliciano, pausing for a moment to drink in the look of that perfect olive-tan skin. He trailed the back of his hand over one of the Italian's arms. That moment of hesitation only fueled his desire. He lifted the pair of narrow hips off the sleeping bag and slid his hands onto Feliciano's backside. He really did have a perfect ass: slender and firm, yet with just enough give for Ludwig to sink his fingertips into. He pulled the body beneath him forward and pushed slowly inside.

"A-aah," the strangled gasp fell from Feliciano's lips once Ludwig was fully inside, cock twitching against that wonderful tightness. But before he could continue, a voice interrupted him: "W-wait, why…?" Feliciano said. There was a note of uncertainty in his eyes.

Ludwig's breath hitched. What was wrong? Was it something _he'd_ done? "This is how you _should_ be treated," he said, firmly but gently. He pulled out and then thrust back in. When he bent down to kiss the other man, he felt something slick against his lips. Quiet tears were running down Feliciano's face. "What's wrong? Should I stop?"

"N-no...it's just…I never…people don't usually…" Feliciano halted, apparently trying to gather his thoughts. "It's just that the guys at the university could be…"

"Assholes?" Ludwig finished the sentence for him, his voice a bit more gruff and harsh than he intended. Sighing, he wiped tears from the Italian's face with his thumb. Who in the world could treat him badly?

"Y-yeah, you could say that." Feliciano exhaled shakily, and then smiled. "It's okay. I'm okay now."

"Are you sure? If you want me to stop, you just have to say so."

This time, Feliciano chuckled softly. "No, don't stop." His smile broadened. "Please, don't stop."

Ludwig smiled, too. He started thrusting in and out of Feliciano, slowly at first. That body was so hot and tight around his erect member. He wanted to pound relentlessly into Feliciano and come inside him fast and hard. But he knew better than that. If they were going to do this, he'd make sure they'd do it right. Instead, he gritted his teeth and fought back the urge, following through with the slow, gentle pace he'd set up. Their lips clashed roughly. Feliciano took Ludwig's lower lip in his mouth and sucked on it, then bit down softly, earning a little moan from the German. The little imprints left on his lip by the Italian's teeth were like throwing kerosene on an already-burning flame. It was perhaps a bit too soon, but Ludwig increased the pace of his thrusts. He probed deep inside Feliciano, searching for that spot…he couldn't find it…the other pair of hips shifted slightly underneath him, and he thrust in harder. "Ah, hah, L-Ludwig…mmh…" Feliciano's voice was higher-pitched than normal, and quivering. Ludwig allowed a smirk to sneak onto his face. He'd found it. He continued pounding over that spot, making sure to press directly into it every time. The Italian's hips met his thrusts eagerly.

They were both panting heavily now. Feliciano's face had flushed a bright pink, and Ludwig was sure his matched – or was perhaps worse. In between those gasps for air and desperate moans, Feliciano pleaded, "Luddy, touch me, _please!_" It was strange – how the German felt so much more _complete _at those tense words, spoken in a voice he'd never heard directed at anyone else. It was as though he was needed for something. Ludwig complied all too eagerly, wrapping his hands around the Italian's erection and stroking it in time with the increasingly erratic motions of his body. It pulsed, hot under his touch. Feliciano moaned again, rather loudly this time. That only encouraged Ludwig to slide his hand up and down the Italian's cock faster as he pressed relentlessly in and out.

After a brief span of time, Ludwig felt his core tighten. It was as though he was standing on the edge of a cliff, about to fall off. But he gritted his teeth again and held back. He wanted to come so badly, but he wouldn't – not yet, not before Feliciano! He continued to fuck the Italian thoroughly, stroking the member in his hands so quickly his wrists began to hurt. But then he had a thought. Ludwig pulled one hand away and found Feliciano's curl, pulling it straight out between his fingers and then letting it snap suddenly back into place. The Italian screamed Ludwig's name and came at last. Ludwig was close onto his heels. With one final vulgar _smack_ of flesh and a low, husky grunt of _Feliciano_, he came inside the Italian, and held onto the smaller body beneath his until it stopped shuddering.

Ludwig sighed happily and pulled out just as slowly as he'd pushed in. The two clung to each other, legs tangled, lips pressing softly together. Feliciano's fingers were wound in the German's blonde hair. "MmhLudwig," Feliciano mumbled as he let his face fall forward against Ludwig's sweaty chest. The Italian's soft breaths made little puffs against his skin, which was already cooling in Everest's icy and unforgiving night air. "Thank you, that felt so good," he added as a dazed epilogue to the German's name.

"Mmhmm," Ludwig murmured, not in the right mindset to speak coherently himself. He kissed Feliciano a few more times, too happy to think to do much else. Shivering from the cold that had replaced their shared body heat, Ludwig crawled into his own sleeping bag. Feliciano slid in behind him, leaving little wiggle room in the now tightly stretched fabric. The German started to grumble in protest, but then he realized he didn't mind. Besides, Feliciano's sleeping bag was now pretty much soaked through from their…lovemaking. Ludwig gave the phrase some thought, turning it over in his mind. _Making love._ That was what it had felt like, hadn't it? But he reminded himself that it was much too early to put such a label on it.

The Italian's hand searched for his, and as their fingers intertwined, Ludwig gave that hand a little squeeze. He started to doze off. The smells of sweat and sex were heavy in the air, mixed with a faint twist of hair gel and the sunscreen they wore to protect themselves on the mountain's exposed face. It was an oddly comforting conglomeration of scents. It meant that even though they were both sleeping in tents on a mountain that was thousands of miles away from home, with the possibility that neither of them would make it back alive, they had shared something together. Feliciano had given Ludwig a way to make their unfamiliar surroundings – and the separation from everything he knew in life – a little less lonely. He brought Feliciano's hand to his lips and kissed it before shutting his eyes. He was unbelievably exhausted. Dealing with high altitudes was tiring enough without adding sex onto the end of it. But it had been worth it.

* * *

**Oh, and for the record, I WAY prefer FrUK to FraCan/Franada, whatever you want to call it, but I just wanted to have some funsies with Francis. And I started shipping FrUK just after I started planning out this fic. Hey, I'm new to the fandom, OK?**

******As always, thanks for reading, and reviews are love :)**


	8. Chapter 8: Camp Four

**"Hey, lovebirds! It's time to get u-up!"**

The voice that awoke Feliciano that morning belonged not to Ludwig, but to Francis. His eyes slid open slowly. He was still exhausted and a little dazed from the previous night's…activities. Feliciano was wrapped in Ludwig's arms. Pausing for a moment, he tried to imagine how they'd wound up like that. They must have managed to switch positions within the packed sleeping bag at some point last night, after Feliciano had slid in behind the German.

"Mmh…_what_?" Ludwig mumbled, still half-asleep.

"I said, it's time to get up, _vous deux_!" Francis practically sang. Feliciano rubbed his eyes and glanced around the tent as the traces of sleep faded from his vision. The Frenchman was grinning a little too eagerly as he eyed the two of them nestled together in Ludwig's sleeping bag.

Ludwig waved the Frenchman off with one hand. "Okay, okay, Francis. We'll get up."

Francis hummed and rose both eyebrows. "I never thought I would see the day when I would have to wake Ludwig! You are usually the first of us to wake!" He shrugged and threw his head back to laugh. "Well, I suppose if I'd just spent the night having sex at 21,000 feet, I wouldn't want to get up either, _non_?"

"Who said that was what we were doing? Why in hell would you think that?" Ludwig growled as a hint of bright red crept into his cheeks.

Feliciano couldn't stop himself from giggling. Ludwig was really too cute sometimes! "Of c–" He had started to say _of course that's what we were doing, _but Ludwig cut him off with a rather sudden and sloppy kiss on the lips.

Francis had to bite his lip to keep from bursting out laughing. "I know because…" He trailed off, raised his eyebrows again, and tilted his head.

Ludwig's eyes followed the tilt of Francis' head and came to rest on the tube of lube, which rested just beyond the foot of Feliciano's sleeping bad. The cap was still off. Whatever liquid remained inside was probably frozen solid by now. "_Mein…Gott…"_ Ludwig said haltingly as he covered his face with his hand. The Italian pried his hand away, held it in both his own, and kissed him softly. The German stiffened a little. He looked as though he wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear for a while.

"It's okay, _mes chers_! " Francis said. "I am actually a bit jealous of you two. I wish I could be…getting some, as Alfred would say, during this expedition." He laughed one more time, and then added, "please do get up!" as an afterthought before he retreated again out of their tent.

Feliciano actually crawled out of the sleeping bag first. The Italian started to dress, and Ludwig lay motionless for another moment, looking completely mortified, before he followed suit. They whipped their clothes on in a rush, sensing they were late, and stumbled out of the tent to join the others for breakfast. But as they left, they nearly ran straight into Pasang, who studied them with dark, critical eyes. He shook his head and muttered something under his breath. "What?" Ludwig asked. The German met Pasang's gaze with shocking intensity. Ice-blue eyes searched the Sherpa's deep brown eyes in a way that was almost challenging.

"You have defiled sacred _Miyolangsangma_," Pasang said in a low, accusatory voice. Ludwig opened his mouth to question that statement, but Pasang didn't give him the chance. "You _infidels_…" he barked, narrowing his eyes dangerously, "…you are so thoughtless and disrespectful. Would you have sex in a Catholic church?" Once again, he left no room for a response, even though Feliciano and Ludwig were both ready to chime in. "No? Then you have no business having sex on this mountain! You have doomed us all. Now _Miyolangsangma_ will bring her wrath down upon this expedition, and perhaps upon all who climb the mountain this year!" With that, he tossed his head and spun around in the other direction, waving his hands in the air and muttering what Feliciano could only guess were Nepali curses.

Feliciano and Ludwig stared at each other, stunned into silence. The Italian's mind reeled. But then, he realized he didn't believe in all that voodoo crap. He giggled and said to Ludwig, "Oh, look, are we going to be cursed now?"

Instead of responding with Feliciano's touch of humor, Ludwig whispered in a tense voice, _"Scheisse!_" He grabbed Feliciano's hand with such force it hurt. "I forgot all about _Miyolangsangma_! She's the mountain goddess who lives on Everest. The Sherpas say she can determine the outcome of a climb. If one behaves inappropriately…"

"Oh, Ludwig, you don't _really_ believe that, do you?" Feliciano interrupted. "I know you've studied local culture, but that doesn't mean you have to adopt it as your own. Come on. We'll be fine! We've had a few mishaps so far, but we're all here and going strong!" he reassured. But just as he'd finished speaking the words _going strong_, he started to cough again. The deep, dry convulsions were so intense they almost instantly made his side ache. Once he stopped coughing, he glanced up at Ludwig with watering eyes. "I-I'm fine, really," he said.

"I suppose you're right," Ludwig conceded. "This team is solid. We should be all right. But you must make sure to get your rest, and take some medicine for that cough." Feliciano nodded, and they continued on toward the dining tent.

The cold air assaulted Feliciano's face as they continued to make their way to the dining tent. He shivered, and his teeth chattered. The warm and peaceful feeling that had overtaken him that morning evaporated, lost to the blasts of wind and the few faint swirls of snow that drifted on the gusts of air. When he settled into his chair at the foldable dining table, the aggravating tingling sensation returned to the back of his throat, and he gave in to a series of violent coughs that had him bent over the table. When the coughing subsided for a moment, his appetite put on its running shoes, packed its bags, waved good-bye to him, and took off at a sprint in the opposite direction. Pasang, who was still giving him and Ludwig the evil eye, placed breakfast in front of Feliciano. He eyed it without any desire to wolf it down, which was unusual for him, especially on this mountain. Usually, the food he was given never seemed enough to satisfy his hunger. But all of a sudden…nothing. He felt Ludwig's eyes upon him. He could almost feel the German's concern for him burning through the back of his head. Reluctantly, he started eating. As the food hit his stomach, it felt like he had just swallowed a brick. He was probably just hitting the period of exhaustion the rest of the team had encountered about a week ago. That was all. He'd be all right in a few days. At least that's what he tried to tell himself.

The team finished breakfast and prepared for the toughest day of climbing they'd faced so far since they first ventured into the Khumbu Icefall. Two obstacles stood between all of them and Camp Four, their next destination: the Yellow Band and the Geneva Spur, both rocky structures that, at lower altitudes, probably wouldn't render themselves that challenging. But now, when they were climbing to altitudes upwards of 25,000 feet, and had been on the mountain for six and a half weeks now, both could potentially pose problems for weary mountaineers. They strapped on their crampons and turned to depart when Ludwig spoke up. "Will we be starting on bottled oxygen today?" he asked Alfred.

Alfred's eyes moved over every single group member who had gathered before him. "Nah, I think we'll skip it for now," he said nonchalantly, as though he were deciding whether or not he'd order dessert at a restaurant rather than judging whether his climbers would need to breathe life-saving, energy-providing oxygen from tanks they'd carry on their backs. "That is, if everyone's feeling okay. I think if we can pull it off, it'll make us that much stronger when we push for the summit."

Everyone else gave a word or two of agreement. Feliciano was silent. He wasn't sure how long he'd be able to climb without bottled oxygen at these altitudes, especially now, as his breath came in ragged gasps punctuated regularly by coughs. But he didn't want the others to worry about him or to underestimate him, so he said nothing. Besides, Pasang was carrying an oxygen tank or two with him, just in case one of them ran into problems.

The Lhotse Face continued upward until it reached the South Col, the lowest point of the mountain pass upon which Camp Four was situated. The ease with which Feliciano had ascended the portions of the Lhotse Face between Camp One and Camp Three had almost completely abandoned him. His fingers shook as he slid the jumar up the fixed rope that would lead them to the Yellow Band. He walked up the vertical wall of ice and took a weakly placed step, neglecting to jam the front points of his crampons into the ice. His feet slipped and he fell forward, but luckily, the jumar and carabineer attaching him to the fixed rope held solid, and he flopped helplessly for a moment as the rope tensed and jerked above him. Now, it was the rest of the team who'd turned around to stare at him with concern-filled eyes, as they'd stared at Alfred when he'd lost his crampon on the way up to Camp Two. "Sorry, I'm okay," he said, but the rest of the group didn't look entirely convinced.

Feliciano took a deep breath and kept going. It was as though his own body had begun to turn on him. Every pang of pain, every cough, every inescapable wave of exhaustion seemed like a perfectly orchestrated plea to convince him to turn around, to descend to lower altitudes. But they had come too far for Feliciano to turn around now. They'd summit in about two weeks, so there was no way he could give up! Besides, after spending a night at Camp Four while breathing bottled oxygen, they'd retreat to Base Camp to rest up for three or four days before pushing for the top. If he could just make it back to Base Camp for a while, he knew he'd recover in time.

As if the mountain herself questioned Feliciano's fitness, his fingers fumbled while sliding the jumar upward. He slipped downward on the rope for a split second before the jumar did its job. Its teeth dug into the rope and clicked shut, stopping him from falling any further. He remained motionless for a moment while he clung to the rope. He panted heavily in panic. The shallow, uneven breaths he took shook his chest, which made the coughs start again, and pain shot through his side, stronger than ever before. But he had to keep going. He gathered himself and resumed motion again.

Soon, they reached the Yellow Band, a strip of limestone that cut through the Himalayas. It was only about 200 feet wide, but the elements had polished the rock, which caused crampons to slip almost uselessly on it. Fixed rope spanned the band, which allowed climbers to traverse it. There was a virtual traffic jam of climbers ahead of them, scrambling up the span of rock. Feliciano recognized Roderich, who led the group just ahead of them. They paused at the foot of the Yellow Band to allow the Austrian's team to reach the top before they continued. The Italian was surprised to see Roderich, a careful and experienced climber whose style was strangely similar to Ludwig's yet a bit more smooth and graceful, struggle to find footholds as he ascended. Feeling a bit nervous, Feliciano tugged his eyes away from the Yellow Band and glanced to his side. But the sight that greeted him was perhaps even worse. He screamed as he realized just what he was looking at, leapt backward, and bumped into Ludwig as he yelled, "_D-Dio Mio…"_

A dead body, frozen to the core with eyes still opened wide, stared right back at him. He'd seen one or two on previous ascents, but never had he found himself directly face-to-face with a corpse before. A million thoughts and worries buzzed around in his head like angry bees, but the only phrase he could focus on clearly was, _that could be me if I'm not careful_. Feliciano felt a pair of arms wrap around him. He didn't even have to tilt his gaze backward to see who it was. "_Meine schatz_…" Ludwig's voice soothed before he trailed off, as if the German didn't quite know what to say. He could tell Feliciano, _it's okay_, but how could anyone believe it's okay when they found themselves confronted with a dead body? Instead, Ludwig said, "You know what, Feli? I think we ought to get you on bottled oxygen. It would make you feel better."

Feliciano nodded robotically. He wasn't in any state to protest at this point. Ludwig retrieved an oxygen tank from Pasang, and they sat on the edge of the rock on a very small ledge as Feliciano allowed the mask to be placed over his face. He heard his own breathing whistling and echoing inside the mask, like some sort of mountaineering Darth Vader. It was slightly unsettling, but then Ludwig turned a knob, and thick, clean oxygen rushed into Feliciano's lungs. He breathed deeply and felt a new surge of strength and warmth jolt his body awake. Just like that, he felt good again. He could do this!

By this point, Roderich and his team had nearly reached the top of the Yellow Band, so Alfred started up it, waving the rest of the team on from his position above them. Feliciano would have known even if he could climb with his eyes shut that he had set foot on the Yellow Band. When he jammed his feet forward, the point of his crampons no longer bit into ice, but they met and glanced off solid rock without any gain in traction. Feliciano drew his breath in sharply but didn't panic. Now that he was breathing bottled oxygen, he felt almost invincible. He found his small footholds in the rocky face and hauled himself up the rope, hand over hand, inch by inch. He did slip a few times, but everyone else did, too, including Francis and Ludwig, the team's most experienced climbers.

It took around two hours to ascend the Yellow Band. At the end of the stretch of limestone, the rocks leveled out somewhat at the bottom of the ridge that defined the South Col. This was the beginning of the Geneva Spur. They gathered in a little clump at the bottom of the brown fin of rock that leapt out against the pure white of the snow, making the structure look almost black by comparison. Alfred let out a sigh of exhaustion and of apprehension at the path ahead of them. Feliciano felt the American's edgy mood seep into his own a bit, but as he eyed the Geneva Spur, he thought it might not be so bad. The rock looked more uneven than the Yellow Band did, so it might be easier to find footholds on the way up. As they started to ascend, the Italian found he'd been right. While the terrain looked daunting, the path, worn by the climbers that had come before them, had formed a series of crampon-carved footholds that almost resembled stair steps. They were easier to step onto, and the rocks were covered with bits of snow and ice that the spikes of their crampons could dig into like the teeth of a hungry animal would sink into the flesh of its prey after having been deprived for a bit too long.

As they ascended, flurries of snow blasted around them, probably having been blown off the South Col around Camp Four. Feliciano watched the others choke and sputter a little, but with the oxygen mask covering his mouth, he felt just fine. He reached up and wiped the snow away from his ski goggles, the kind they all wore on the mountain to protect their eyes from dirt, snow, and sun. But with the snow whipping ahead of them, he couldn't see the top of the Geneva Spur. He knew it was ahead, but he didn't know how far. A little discouraged, he reached around to his back and cranked up the dial on his oxygen tank, which sent more of that thick, beautiful air rushing into his lungs. He didn't even consider the possibility that, by increasing the flow of oxygen, he could undo some of the acclimatization he'd accumulated over the past couple of weeks. They'd have to budget their bottled oxygen intake much more once they reached Camp Four and headed to the summit.

Miraculously, their climb up the Geneva Spur progressed without mishaps, which was a stark contrast from some of the previous weeks. At the top of the ridge, they followed a gently sloping rocky path that led them onto the small, flat slab of land that signaled the actual start of the South Col. A small collection of tents were huddled at the corner of the area they now faced. This was Camp Four. But instead of looking to the small orange domes with black logos that set the Summit Adventures team apart, all six pairs of eyes traveled instead upward, where for the first time during the expedition, they could see the ridge and the jagged rocky path that signaled the last stretch of their journey: the Hillary Step. Just above it, even more importantly, was the summit, gloriously untouched, triumphant, unfettered above their heads and, for the first time ever, so close they could all practically taste it. They all stood in collective awe for a moment as their eyes memorized the look of the prize for which they had been fighting for just over six weeks now. They had now entered Everest's infamous Death Zone. The summit of Everest was waiting for them.

But soon they remembered how exhausted they all were, and they retreated into their tents to rest for a bit before dinner. Feliciano lay down on his sleeping bag and started coughing uncontrollably into his oxygen mask, which made a terrifying crackling sound as the sharp puffs of air traveled through it. This time, it seemed like his coughs never ended. His eyes stung with tears at the pain in his right side. Francis wandered into their tent at the sound of the Italian's misery. He managed to take a break from his desperate hacking to choke out, "Francis…my side…it hurts…I-I cant…"

"Oh, my poor _cher_, you may have cracked a rib with all that coughing you've been doing," the Frenchman said sympathetically. "Let me get you some medication." Feliciano pulled away his oxygen mask to swallow the pills. Then, in spite of the eerie sound of his breathing into the mask, he managed to nod off for half an hour before dinner.

They all sat together at the dining tent, ready to eat, though their appetites had slowed at the high altitudes. Alfred, however, was missing. Feliciano exchanged glances with Ivan and Ludwig. None of them seemed willing to dig into dinner without their fearless leader. Francis looked slightly unnerved. In a few minutes, Alfred poked his head into the tent. "Are you all okay?" he asked, in the same tone of voice he'd used when he'd lost a crampon on the Lhotse Face.

"Of course we are, _mon ami,_" Francis said. "We've just been sitting here waiting for you. Why? You look worried."

Alfred took a deep, quivering breath. "Oh, God, it…" His eyes flitted around rapidly, pausing for a moment on each group member to study their individual expressions. "I just spoke with another team on the radio. Someone died. At Camp Three."

"What? How?" Ludwig demanded. "We were just there! Everyone seemed…fine."

"Early today, after we left for Camp Four, a climber woke up for a bathroom break. He went out in only his soft booties. He slipped and fell into a crevasse. They were able to rescue him, but he just died. They think perhaps from injuries." Alfred paused. Then, he said simply, "We've all got to be careful."

Feliciano didn't quite know what to say or think. From the stunned silence of the rest of the group, everyone else shared that sentiment. There may have been other deaths on the mountain that season, but this was the first one they'd heard of. Instead of settling down to enjoy their meal, they all rose wordlessly and headed back outside. Bathed in solemn silence except for the distant sound of the wind as it whistled through the nylon fabric of the tents, they stood and peered up at the summit as the sun sank behind the Himalayas. They lowered their heads together, and all six of them, including Pasang the Sherpa, linked arms behind their backs and stood for a long moment without speaking or even acknowledging anything but one another's presence. There was no need for any of them to ask each other what was going on. They all knew. Then, in near-unison, they all rose their heads once again in search of the summit as the first stars poked through the veil of the vanishing daylight. Though they often had the tendency to split off into pairs or trios, now, they were all one unified team, praying together, or at least wondering if their chances of achieving their dreams this year were still alive. "Can we do it?" Feliciano asked in a very small voice that was nearly inaudible as a strong gust of wind howled through Camp Four.

"Yes, we can," Alfred said in a voice that somehow managed to be both firm and unsteady. "We've all just got to keep believing."

* * *

**As always, thanks for reading, and reviews are love :)**

**Oh, just a note. The thing with Pasang the Sherpa being mad at Feliciano and Ludwig was based on something that actually happened. Sherpas have legitimately been worried in the past when Americans and/or Europeans have had sex on Everest because they believed it was a mark against the mountain goddess Miyolangsangma and that it would bring bad luck to their climb. Will it bring bad luck to our boys' climb? You'll just have to wait and see.**

**Up next: After returning to Base Camp to rest for a few days, the boys push for the summit!**


	9. Chapter 9: Push For the Summit

**DanieSora, here you are! I hope you enjoy this chapter. Well, actually I hope all my lovely readers enjoy this chapter.**

* * *

When Ludwig awoke that morning, even he was filled with nervous energy. After having rested at Base Camp for four days, today they would depart for the summit. In five short days, they would stand on top of the highest point in all the world. After so many years, so much planning, and so much heartache, Ludwig could finally taste its elusive promise. Though the team had already had a few mishaps on the way, he felt hopeful. He was feeling strong and rested and ready to take on anything. Feliciano, on the other hand…a series of intense dry coughs cut through Ludwig's hopeful bliss as the Italian stepped into his pants beside him. Those coughs were so deep and shuddering that they were almost physically painful for the German to listen to. "Are you going to be all right, _meine schatz?_" he asked.

"Yes, of course," Feliciano answered quickly. But the Italian's words didn't entirely convince Ludwig. Ever since they'd reached Camp Four, Feliciano's appetite had vanished without a trace. Ludwig had expected it to return once they'd reached lower altitudes at Base Camp, but it simply hadn't. He prayed every day that they'd all reach the summit safely – and, more importantly, that they'd make it safely back down.

They strapped on their crampons to advance up through the Khumbu Icefall for the last time after having spent the past month and a half familiarizing themselves with its shifting glaciers. The next time they'd cross those ice ladders, it would be on their way _home_. Home – the word reverberated through Ludwig's mind. Only two weeks separated him from his flight back to Berlin. Life on the mountain had become routine to him. It seemed as though every night for the rest of his life, he'd fall asleep curled up in a sleeping bag with the whistling of the wind outside his tent, and every morning, he'd awaken to the mountain looming before him and to the same mundane, energy-giving breakfast. This _was_ life now. It was strange to think he was so close to leaving it. In a way, he'd be happy to return to the life he'd always known. But what about Feliciano? What would happen to the two of them? He'd come to care about the little Italian more than he'd ever expected to. Well, that wasn't a thought that was appropriate for moving through the dangers of the Icefall.

In the distance, wisps of storm clouds hovered, taunting. "Let's move, team," Alfred said. "I want to reach Camp One before that thing hits. You _don't_ want to be crossing hundred-foot-deep crevasses in near-zero visibility."

Ludwig nodded and stepped onto the first ice ladder. The snow-filled clouds imparted upon him a sense of urgency. He was usually too careful when crossing the aluminum ladders, but today, he stepped a little more quickly than normal. His eyes were fixed upon the rungs over which his booted feet moved. Feliciano followed. By contrast, he moved a bit more slowly than usual. The Italian had grown more confident each time he crossed the deep blue-white chasms that sliced deep into the earth, but this time, his cautiousness seemed to come not from nerves, but from sheer exhaustion. The others made their way across the ladder in succession after Feliciano. They all looked just as rested and anxious for the summit as Ludwig did.

If Feliciano's apparent weakness wasn't enough reason to worry, the clouds and the snow that shadowed the team with them was. The storm had once seemed far away. They hadn't expected to feel its impact until at least the next camp. But it brought its fury without warning down upon the team, surrounding them in swirling blankets of whiteness. Alfred had made it halfway over the second ice ladder when it hit in full force. The wind whipped at Ludwig's hair, stung his face like a slap to the cheek, made Feliciano's curl bounce up and down. Little snowflakes soon gathered on the tops of their hats, the tips of their noses, and on their eyelashes. "Come on, guys," Alfred instructed once they'd crossed. "Let's hurry."

But as they were about to ascend a fixed rope over a jutting portion of the glacier, their progress was halted as another team came back down the ice face from the other side. Roderich Edelstein was at the front of the team. Once his crampons touched solid ground, he raised a hand and waved to Alfred.

"_Guten Tag, Herr_ Jones," Roderich greeted with a cordial smile.

"Heey, Roderich!" Alfred responded, ignoring the formal politeness with which the Austrian spoke. "How _are_ you, bro?"

Roderich blinked a few times and shook his head briefly before speaking again. "I am well, thank you, and yourself?"

"I'm great, dude."

"Good to hear," Roderich said. "Listen, which camp are you planning to reach in the next few days?"

Alfred laughed, as though that was as stupid a question as _what color is the sky_? "We're going to Camp Four! Our summit day's coming up soon." He hesitated a moment. "Wait, isn't yours the day before us? Shouldn't you be at, like, ABC* by now?"

Roderich's expression darkened. For the first time, Ludwig saw a shade of emotion in the man's eyes. He looked vaguely disappointed. "We should," he admitted, sounding a bit defeated. "The weather was absolutely terrible. We had reduced visibility, even during full daylight. And haven't you heard? Some disasters occurred the day before we were to summit. A few climbers are missing. One or two may be dead. Our team decided to turn around."

"Yeah, we heard all that," Alfred said in a voice that was slightly indignant. "We figured we'd go ahead anyway."

With a heavy sigh, Roderich said, "I would advise you and your team not to continue up the mountain in these conditions."

Indeed, it did look as though conditions were worsening. The sky was completely gray. Wisps of snow seemed to consume the whole of the atmosphere. It was difficult to see too far in front of them. It would be frightening to continue across the Icefall like this. "You should listen to him, Alfred," Ludwig offered. Perhaps the American guide wasn't exactly looking for his opinion, but this was a matter of the team's safety.

"Oh, all right," Alfred grumbled. "Hey, team, go get some more rest. I'll be in the communications tent looking at the weather to try to decide when we can make another summit attempt. Because we _are_ trying again." Alfred stormed off in the other direction. He looked pretty pissed. His face was tight. His fists were balled at his sides. The rest of the team followed. They walked slowly, wearing crestfallen expressions.

"Thank you for saying something, Ludwig," Roderich said once the rest of the group had dissipated.

"Oh, don't thank me," Ludwig replied. "I was only looking out for my team's safet-"

Before Ludwig could finish his sentence, the girl with the long, flowing brown hair he'd seen weeks ago at Base Camp jogged up to Roderich, threw her arms around him, and kissed him, first on the cheek, and then on the lips. "Roderich!" she practically sang once she pulled away. Ludwig's eyes widened, at first in shock, but then in the realization that there was no way Roderich could have been after Feliciano. He had a _girlfriend._ Had…had Ludwig _really_ been jealous over the little Italian? He turned the thought over and over again in his head, examining its every angle, paused to wonder if it could really be true. He generally didn't think himself a jealous man, but then again, Feliciano seemed to be able to evoke emotions that hadn't stirred within him in a long time.

"I'll be along in a moment, Elizaveta," Roderich said. He gave her a small smile as he returned her embrace. But something about that smile didn't seem genuine to Ludwig. It didn't seem to fit quite right on Roderich, like a pair of jeans that were just barely too tight, but that one wiggled into anyway and tried to pretend all day that they were perfectly comfortable. However, Elizaveta didn't seem to pick up on the unspoken hesitation, the subtle stiffening of Roderich's body in her embrace. She seemed satisfied as she bounced away, waving over her shoulder.

In Roderich's presence, Ludwig found himself struggling for words. This Austrian man was possibly an even more experienced climber than Ludwig – an experienced climber who he had succeeded in snapping at for no reason only a month ago. "Ah, Roderich," he began a little hesitantly. "I-I feel as though an apology is in order. I realize I may have been a bit rude last time we spoke. I hate to admit it, but I got a little…ah, it was because of Feliciano."

Whatever coldness had clung to Roderich's demeanor in the wake of Elizaveta's departure seemed to melt away at Ludwig's words. He tilted his head back a bit as he laughed, a warm and shockingly genuine laugh in comparison with the forced smile he'd worn moments ago. "Don't worry about it!" he said. "I guessed that was what was going on. No need to be concerned, I'm not after Feliciano. Not that I…" At this point, one corner of Roderich's mouth pulled down the slightest bit, and there was a dim and vague, but present, twinkle in those purple eyes. "…not that I didn't think about it at one point. He's cute, really cute."

"He is…" Ludwig replied with a sigh and an infectious smile of his own. At that moment, he could nearly picture Feliciano lying sprawled out atop his sleeping bag, auburn hair slightly mussed from having been tucked under a cap for hours, but of course the shape of that curl would still be intact, as if by some sort of voodoo. His copper-brown eyes would still shine softly despite his exhaustion as he gazed up at the roof of the tent. Those eyes were now rimmed in dark circles and the once glowing tan skin had paled and lost its luster in the cold and stress of Everest, but the face was still perfect to Ludwig. He pictured heavy eyelids sliding over those bright brown eyes, leaving the weary but beautiful face peaceful as Feliciano dozed off. Roderich's chuckle knifed through the image that ran through Ludwig's mind and brought him back to reality. "But I see I have nothing to worry about," he added hurriedly. "Elizaveta, she seems nice."

"Yes, well," Roderich said with a sort of abrupt coarseness. His eyes shifted to the glinting snow, and he scowled at it momentarily before his gaze flicked back upwards to meet Ludwig's blue eyes. "I don't believe she's the one I want to be with any longer," Roderich muttered sullenly before covering his face with his hand. "_Mein Gott,_ why am I telling you this? I barely know y…" he trailed off and pulled his hand away from his face to peer at Ludwig curiously. He tilted his head back and forth and eyed the German up and down as if he were about to make a sculpture of the man. Then, his mouth fell open a little bit and hung there uselessly for a moment before he clapped his jaw shut and replaced his confused expression with a weak smile, as though none of that had ever happened. "Well, I ought to get back to my team now," he said. "But I meant what I said before that you would make a fine guide, Ludwig."

In spite of that little moment of unexplainable awkwardness, Ludwig found himself smiling back at the Austrian. Maybe…maybe Roderich wasn't mean at all. Maybe he had projected his feelings of jealousy onto Roderich and had misrepresented calmness as coldness. "_Danke,_" he replied warmly.

Ludwig turned around, intending to find Feliciano and perhaps flop down next to him for a bit of cuddling and napping before dinner, when Roderich's voice stopped him in his tracks. "Please tell him that I said hello…and that I said I'm sorry, all right?"

"Do you mean Feliciano?" Ludwig asked, confused.

"God no, we've been through this!" Roderich said, looking almost just as confused as Ludwig. "You don't…_Mein Gott,_ he really never told you?"

"Who never told…" Ludwig began to say.

"Hey Ludwig! Let's get going!" Alfred called from the edge of an ice ladder. He turned at the sound of the American's voice, happy to jog off in the other direction and leave the Austrian and his nonsensical behavior.

* * *

Once Alfred and the rest of the team had reached Base Camp once again, he stood in the communications tent with Ludwig, Francis, and a few guides from other expeditions to try to re-assess weather conditions and summit dates. On the radar, he could clearly see the beginnings of a storm blowing across Everest and the surrounding mountains. It looked as though it would clear up in a few days, but he couldn't be entirely sure. At this point, everything was simply a matter of chance. Alfred turned to the other climbers assembled in the tent. "I'm going to try for the summit again," he said firmly. "Who's with me?"

The rest of the tent fell silent for a moment. "I don't think we will try again this year," one of the guides spoke up. "It's much too dangerous. And we've gotten reports that a few climbers are stranded on the summit today. Beck Weathers. Scott Fischer. We don't want that to be us. I think it would be crazy to try again. We'll just pack up and go home."

Nods and murmurs of agreement rippled through the small group that had jammed into the small space. "Really?' Alfred shouted. "You're all just going to give up like that? You're all just gonna _fucking give up?_"

"Alfred, don't you understand? It's _dangerous!_" someone said.

"Everest is _always_ dangerous," Alfred shot back indignantly. "What's the difference?"

Alfred felt a light hand on his shoulder. "_Herr _Jones_,_" Roderich said coolly. "I plan to try again. You are not alone."

Alfred smiled and thanked the Austrian before he retreated to the dining tent for dinner. Maybe he just needed to cool off a little bit. He slumped into his chair and gazed sullenly at his team. Their faces were downcast, their hope shattered. "It's all right, guys, we got this," he said, even though he didn't trust in his own promise. He watched Feliciano and Ludwig, who sat so closely together their hipbones touched and their arms brushed. Feliciano nodded off several times during dinner, once while he still had his fork in his hand. His eyelids slid shut and he remained that way for a few moments before his head fell forward and his eyes shot open as he jerked awake. He rubbed his eyes sleepily and yawned before he resumed picking at his food. Ludwig rested a hand on the Italian's thigh under the table.

The team finished their meal in silence. Everyone stood and prepared to head back to their tents to catch some more rest. In a way, that was the single advantage of delaying summit day: they'd be able to regain a little extra strength before they began to ascend again. Alfred lingered back for an extra few moments, feeling utterly shattered. Ivan paused just as he was about to leave the dining tent. He glanced over his shoulder as Alfred stood so suddenly that his hip bumped into the table and nearly made it tip over. "Al, is everything all right?" Ivan asked.

"God fucking damnit! Our summit plans are ruined! Ruined!" Alfred yelled. He kicked at the little stove first. Then, he grabbed the pan from atop it and flung it across the dining tent. His face was red and hot with anger. It was possible they could attempt the summit again, but as they pushed later and later into the climbing season, the worse their chances of reaching the top became. And yes, he'd been to the top twice before, but he'd put so much work and effort into this climb that he hated to see it fail! Besides, he had grown to like his team. He thought that every single one of them deserved a chance to stand on top of the highest mountain in the world, and perhaps now they had missed that chance. "Fuckity fuck fuck fuck!" He slammed his fist against the stove, which rattled in protest.

"Alfred, it's all right, _da_?" Ivan said coolly. "We can try for the summit again in a few days when the weather clears up."

Alfred scowled at the Russian. Was he dense? "We may not _get_ another chance!" he shot back, waving his hands in the air. "Have you seen this weather?"

Taking both the American's hands in his, Ivan said, "Calm down, _dorogoy_." He was giving Alfred his typical innocent smile, but there was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

"Calm down? Don't tell me to calm down! I'm the guide! You can't tell me wh–" Alfred didn't get a chance to finish. His words were smothered by Ivan's lips as they smashed forcefully into his. The Russian's arms wound around Alfred's waist, and he pulled their bodies close together until the American's arms were pinned against the larger man's chest. He couldn't move. He couldn't struggle. All he could do was press back into the kiss. Ivan's tongue met his lips, and he parted them to allow entrance. Then, Ivan's tongue flicked in a teasing manner against the roof of Alfred's mouth. As they pulled apart, a thin trail of saliva clung to their lips, which almost stung in the frosty air. It broke apart at the middle and Alfred reached up to wipe his damp lip, unable to stop the satisfied grin that overtook his face. Ivan was wearing a huge smirk, and his scarf was pushed down away from his face, where it hung loosely around his neck. Now his violet eyes were positively gleaming. Was he up to something?

It didn't take long for Alfred to find the answer to that question. Still holding the American's hips, Ivan pushed him against the stove and, with an open palm, rubbed Alfred's cock through his pants. Alfred shuddered at the Russian's touch and gave a little moan. Then, his cheeks flushed, and he looked up abashedly. Ivan only giggled. "You are so cute," he mused, still rubbing between Alfred's legs.

"And what do you think you're doing?" Alfred tried to sound scolding and serious, but then his voice weakened along with his resolve. What would be so bad about giving in to Ivan's little games? It wouldn't make him less of a man, would it? No, it would just make him a human with normal desires. Usually, he'd fight so that he wouldn't be the first to crack, but he _wanted_ the Russian so badly that his mind made up excuses to justify giving Ivan what he wanted.

"You're tense," Ivan said in a voice that was slightly lower in pitch than usual. "I want you to relax. That's all."

Alfred raised an eyebrow. He'd made up his mind – he'd have Ivan tonight! "Well, I suppose I _could_ use some help…relaxing." Ivan's palm continued its shameless motion against the American's cock, which pulsed and grew hot in response. Alfred shot a glance at the Russian, who was just starting to get hard. _Let's speed up that process, shall we?_ he thought. He pressed his own hand against the other man's arousal and slid it slowly upward under his shirt and fleece jacket. He dragged his fingers through the soft hair on Ivan's chest and then ran them over Ivan's nipples. "Mmh…" Ivan mumbled as he shifted to place a knee between Alfred's legs, which would stop the American from moving from his place against the little stove.

But Ivan wasn't about to let Alfred have the upper hand. He bent forward and kissed Alfred again, first on the mouth, then along his jaw before his lips finally settled at the American's neck. With Alfred backed against the stove, powerless to shift his position, Ivan kissed his neck repeatedly, then sucked on it, then bit down, softly at first. But then he repeated the process, harder this time – hard enough to leave a mark for the next day. Alfred whimpered as he felt the Russian's teeth in his skin. The American started grinding his erection relentlessly against something very, _very_ hard. _Damn, Ivan…_he thought, a little bit awestruck, before he realized it was the Russian's _knee_.

Well, _that_ was a little awkward.

He stopped immediately and bit his lip, but Ivan only chuckled – a muffled sound, as he was still biting Alfred's neck. It was starting to really hurt. He had half a mind to ask Ivan to stop, but on the other hand, it was turning him on _way_ too much. He couldn't wait any longer. Impatient, his hand found the waistband of Ivan's thick climbing pants. He unsnapped them and yanked them down fast and hard. But then, Alfred huffed in disappointment. _Damn, I forgot about those!_ he thought. Beneath the climbing pants, they all wore compression tights that would help keep out the cold. It was just another layer to strip away! But this one left considerably less to the imagination. Now Alfred could see Ivan's erection, thick and bulging in the tight pants. Alfred tugged away the compression tights, too, and hurriedly moved his hands to his own pants. He unbuttoned them with shaking fingers and wiggled out of both layers at once as Ivan stepped out of his own pants. While Alfred was certain the Russian picked up on his sense of urgency, he didn't trust Ivan to hurry things along at the pace the American wanted them to go at. No, he might just take his sweet time and let them languish in their painful hardness, all the while continuing to tease him. Well, Alfred was through playing games.

Just as he was about to strip Ivan of his undergarments as well, Alfred paused. He realized they were still in the dining tent! "Should we go back to _our _tent?" he asked. Then, he chuckled. "Let's go to our tent" – it was the mountaineer's version of "let's go back to my place."

"_Nyet_," Ivan said. "Stove is in here. It's off, but is still warm, _da_? Is quite cold outside."

Alfred nodded his agreement, but he glanced around, hoping no one was hovering just outside the tent.

"No one is going to come in, silly _dorogoy,_" Ivan teased. "It's late. Everyone is sleeping. We are the only two fools crazy enough to still be awake."

Alfred couldn't argue with that. _Sane_ climbers would be trying to rest up for another summit attempt. But if this was what crazy felt like, he didn't want to be sane. They both pulled off their shirts, and once their chests were bare, Ivan took one of Alfred's nipples captive between his lips, moving his tongue across it with that light, feathery flicking motion of his. He lifted his face back, about to give the other the same treatment, before Alfred pressed his hand flat against Ivan's chest. He was much too impatient to continue to waste time with foreplay. He pulled down Ivan's underpants in a rough, sudden motion and did the same to his own. But before he could continue, Ivan was on his knees in front of Alfred, licking the American's cock with those same teasing strokes of the tongue he'd used all evening. Alfred opened his mouth to speak, but the words wouldn't come out. _Stop, stop so I can get inside of you already_ was what he wanted to say, but instead, his hands wound through Ivan's pale blonde hair as if the American didn't have any choice in the matter, keeping the other man's mouth against his erection. After a few moments, he found his voice at last: "I-Ivan, enough of this! S-stop…"

"Well, you don't want to be _dry_, do you?" Ivan said with a grin as he started to stand. _True again, Ivan._ Somehow – Alfred didn't quite know how – he managed to spin the larger man around in one swift motion and push him against the stove. It indeed flooded the room with warmth – the vestiges of the evening's dinner. Without another moment's hesitation, he thrust hard into Ivan.

Ivan released a strangled sigh at the sudden motion, but it was lost amidst the sound of Alfred's own breathy, satisfied grunt. Finally, his throbbing erection found a measure of relief as it twitched eagerly inside Ivan's hot body. He pulled out, almost all the way to the tip, and slammed back into the Russian. The stove shifted and rattled at the impact of the two bodies. The third time he thrust into Ivan, there was an audible wet _slap_ of skin against skin. Usually, with the women Alfred slept with, he started off slowly and more gently, allowing them to adjust to his pace. He'd gain momentum only after a few moments had passed. But with Ivan, it was different. With Ivan, it seemed as though all sense of self-control he once possessed had vanished without a trace, packed its bags and left on the first plane out of the country. He couldn't remember the last time he wanted someone this _badly_.

After a few moments in which Alfred slammed furiously into Ivan, he realized he forgot to _think_ as he moved, he'd forgotten to _feel_ a rhythm between them. He liked to think of himself as an accomplished lover, but all that seemed to fly out the window, lost to the glorious feeling of sliding in and out the tall Russian who was pressed against the stove, which rattled with every movement they made. But Alfred didn't have anything to worry about. Ivan pressed back against the American in time with the pace of his erratic thrusts, meeting them firmly, a measure of weakness and surrender in those purple eyes. In a voice that was shockingly high and desperate, Ivan begged, "T-touch me, Alfred…"

But Alfred's hands were on Ivan's hips to help him push faster into the Russian. "Do it yourself," he replied. He thought it would be absolutely delicious to watch Ivan touch himself as they moved together.

"Okay, then, _ya khochu bytʹ na vysote_!" Ivan said between grunts, hands around that huge member of his, jerking it furiously.

"What's that? I can't understand you when you speak Commie, babe," Alfred said smugly. He found that spot inside Ivan and pounded into it mercilessly. As for himself, he was getting close, so close…just another moment…

Just as Alfred felt as though he was about to come, Ivan jerked away, forcing Alfred to pull out. He shuddered, moaned, and nearly screamed as the cold air assaulted him. He ached inside from the sudden loss of Ivan's body around his erect cock. The Russian's hands were on his shoulders, backing him against the stove, before he pushed inside the American. "My turn," Ivan said, his tone of voice now surprisingly even as he held Alfred's hip with one hand and took his member with the other.

"Hey, Ivan, that's not fair, you can't…ah, hah…Ivan…IVAN!" Whatever Alfred was going to say was wiped from his memory as he came all over the front of the stove and on the Russian's hand while screaming Ivan's name. Ivan wasn't far behind, and in a moment, he came hard inside the American, murmuring something in a low, heavily accented voice that sounded suspiciously like _Alfred._

After they pulled apart, they realized just how cold the evening was becoming. Their teeth chattered as they tucked themselves into their pants and pulled their fleece jackets back over their heads. Ivan grabbed at Alfred's hand once they'd dressed again, pulled him close, and kissed him softly. "Come on, _dorogoy,_ let's go back and get some sleep."

"Mmhmm," Alfred murmured tiredly, as he was still just emerging from that incredible haze of pleasure. As he prepared to venture back out into the cold night, where snow was probably blowing in every direction by now, his eyes flicked back to the stove. They had made…quite a mess of the front of it. "Shit," he mumbled, and found a roll of paper towels sitting atop the table. He bent and started to wipe at the stove.

"Stop that and come to bed," Ivan instructed teasingly.

"No," Alfred protested. "Someone's gonna come in here tomorrow morning and see this. I don't need my Sherpa flipping shit because more people were having sex on his 'sacred' mountain." Before Alfred knew what was going on, he felt a hand at his collar, hauling him backward away from the stove. "Ivan – Ivan, _hey!_ What do you think you're doing?"

Ivan giggled. "It's not your job to clean," he said. He picked up a pot, which contained the remainders of the night's dinner, and dumped it over the front of the stove. "Whoops, I spilled food," he said innocently, and Alfred couldn't help but laugh with him. He followed the Russian back to their tent and collapsed almost instantly onto his sleeping bag. Ivan's arms wrapped around him automatically. Alfred realized he felt strangely at peace in the Russian's arms at night, even on this dangerous and volatile mountain. As he drifted off to sleep, he thought back vaguely to everyone he'd slept with in the past, comparing and weighing those experiences against this one. With Ivan, it hadn't been _just sex._ Yes, he'd wanted to pound relentlessly into the other man and release his building sexual frustration, but he couldn't deny any longer that he cared about Ivan, more than he'd probably ever admit.

* * *

**Oh, I'm sorry, did you think they would reach the summit during this chapter?**

***snicker* I'm an evil person. Yes, I know. **

**As always, thanks for reading, and please review! **

**Up next: The **_**actual**_** summit! (Maybe.) **

*** ABC stands for Advance Base Camp, which is another name for Camp Two.**


	10. Chapter 10: On Top of the World

**Starting next chapter, I think I may change my FF pen name to Shannon A. Bernstein. Just thought I'd give you a heads-up!**

* * *

Ivan awoke that morning to the sound of his own breathing reverberating in his oxygen mask. He grumbled as he stood to ready himself for the day of climbing. He moved almost mechanically, exhaustion slowing his every step, his every motion, down to the way he zipped and buttoned his insulated climbing pants. But he supposed this was just the way it was at Camp Four – in the Death Zone. That was the name given to the portion of Everest above 26,000 feet, at which point climbers are closer to death than they are at any other point on the mountain. Ivan shuddered a little as its ominous title hovered in his mind. It was almost a threat, a grave reminder of their mortality. But then, reality slowly dawned on him. Today was summit day! It had come four days later than they'd hoped, which they'd spent waiting at Base Camp for the weather to clear up, but it had come all the same. Now, Base Camp was practically a ghost town. Only the most die-hard expeditions, which would make a second summit attempt, remained there. Every time the Summit Adventures team made their way through the camp, it reminded them how much of a gamble their summit bid would be – how many lives had been risked, weakened, and even lost already on the mountain. But today, none of it mattered.

Ivan had to remind himself that it was May 15 now. Their original summit date had been May 11. It was easy to lose track of time as days and weeks blended together into one indiscernible mess of existence. With the renewed promise of the summit in his mind, Ivan finished dressing quickly. A new wave of energy surged through his body. It was funny how the simple reminder of the prize they would finally taste later today could make him feel awake and powerful and unstoppable, almost in the same way three cups of coffee or an energy shot would. He practically bounced into the dining tent. Grinning, he greeted the team in a sing-song voice: "Good morning, everyone!"

It was Alfred who replied first. "Morning, Ivan!" he offered between yawns. "Hey, dude, how do you say 'good morning' in Russian?"

"_Dobroye utro._"

"_Duh-Dobroye utro?_" Alfred repeated.

"_Da_!" Ivan said brightly. It was cute to hear the American, who had jokingly called him a "Commie" just a few nights ago during sex, stumble over the Russian words that came so naturally to Ivan. He found himself grinning and giggling.

Alfred flushed bright red. "Hey!" he said indignantly. "Why do I care anyway? I don't have to speak your Commie language! I speak _American_. That's right – American. Not even English. We're so much more awesome than those Brits. I should know. I've known Brits in the past."

"Mmm, so have I," Francis hummed as a smirk crossed his face. "Will you just shut your mouth occasionally, Alfred? You clearly have no idea what you're talking about." He nudged the American good-naturedly in the side and chuckled. His laugh sounded rather evil as it echoed into his oxygen mask. Alfred had made plenty of Darth Vader jokes when they'd all put on their oxygen masks yesterday, which drew nothing but dry, humorless chuckles from Francis and blank stares from the rest of the team. Of course, the jokes were somewhat ironic anyway, since Alfred would attempt the summit without the aid of bottled oxygen. Ivan thought that was a little foolish, especially considering the mishaps the team had run into so far, but the American always had to be such a damn hero.

Everyone's face was filled with anticipation as they scarfed down their breakfast by the camping lanterns placed along the table in the dining tent. It was midnight, and it was still nearly dark outside. They needed to wake up this early in order to make the summit in time. Even Feliciano's face was bright and grinning. Ivan was worried about the little Italian, since he'd struggled and coughed all the way back up to Camp Four.

Once they'd finished eating, Alfred stood and motioned for them to follow. They pulled their caps further over their ears, pulled their headlamps on, sighed deeply, and ventured out into the early morning. "All right, everyone," Alfred said. "Make sure your oxygen tanks are set to three liters per minute. Three and no more! You can go less if you're feeling good, but absolutely no more than three. We need to budget our oxygen consumption." Ivan leaned over to check his oxygen tank. It was set at three and a half liters per minute. He felt strong, focused, and ready, so he dialed it all the way back to two liters per minute. That way, if anything went wrong, he'd have extra reserves of oxygen no one else would have. Next to him, he saw Ludwig doing the same thing. The German had cranked his flow all the way down to a liter and a half per minute. "Let's do this thing. Be careful, guys, and good luck!" Alfred finished. With that, they ventured out of the South Col and onto the route that would lead them to the summit.

After leaving the South Col, the team met their first obstacle of the day: the ice bulge, a slippery mass of ice that was tilted up at a funny angle. There were no fixed ropes to help climbers up this section of the mountain. Ivan took the first step onto the tilted ice face, and at first, the points of his crampons glanced right off the front of it, leaving him to slide back a few feet and flop onto his ass on the snow. He looked up, stunned, and Francis offered a hand, which he took and hauled himself to his feet. "Yeah, the ice is super hard," Alfred called up from above. Ivan tried again. The points of his crampons barely bit into the ice. As he started to ascend, relying on only his crampons and ice axe, he could tell that those behind him were struggling just as much as he was. At these altitudes, they moved at a rate of approximately twelve feet per minute, which was slower than babies crawled. Even with the aid of bottled oxygen, the combination of extreme altitudes and exhaustion slowed and complicated their every movement. But Feliciano already seemed to be having more trouble than anyone else. It seemed that about every five steps, he'd start to slide dangerously backward, and Ludwig, who climbed behind him, would reach up and push against the Italian's ass to keep him from falling all the way back down the ice face.

"Are you enjoying that, Ludwig?" Francis asked rather suggestively.

"Francis, I'm just stopping him from falling…" Ludwig insisted.

"Ah, _oui,_ I see…" Francis said mockingly as the German blushed furiously. Ivan would have laughed, but he could see from the pained expression on Feliciano's face that he really was struggling and needed the help. He wondered if the little Italian would be able to make it all the way to the summit.

They clambered off the ice bulge and clipped into fixed ropes at the base of the Triangular Face, a snowy pitch tilted at about a fifty-degree angle. Compared to the slippery slope they'd just ascended, the Triangular Face was a breeze. The night was still dark, and Ivan's field of vision was limited to the narrow cone of light provided by his headlamp. He focused on the line of rope in front of him. At that moment, some of the unbreakable energy Ivan had felt when they left Camp Four had abandoned him. It was already difficult and tiresome to place one foot in front of the other. The team was silent. It was simply too exhausting to talk. The only sounds were that of Pasang murmuring to himself in his native language and of Feliciano's shuddering coughs.

After around two hours of climbing, Ivan expected to see the curve of the Balcony, the point at which the Southeast Ridge began. The ridge led straight along the edge of Everest and would take the team to the South Summit, a point about an hour and a half from the top. But instead, Ivan found himself peering into the face of yet another frozen corpse. But this one seemed fresher and newer than the ones he'd seen before. "Holy shit fuck," Alfred whispered as the six of them gathered around. "That's…that's Scott Fischer. I spoke to him a month and a half ago. I shook his hand. And here he is, dead." The American remained motionless for a moment, his breath coming in ragged gasps, before he blinked and shook his head. "Come on, team," he commanded. "We need to just…keep going. Rest in peace, Scott," he added before they continued on upwards.

At the Balcony, they sat to rest for twenty minutes. Feliciano was shaking all over. He slumped against Ludwig, and his eyelids slid shut almost instantly. Ivan pulled away his oxygen mask and munched on a candy bar. He really wasn't very hungry, but he knew he needed the energy. At that point, the sun started poking over the distant peaks, Cho Oyu, Lhotse, and Makalu, chasing away the chilling and disconcerting shroud of nighttime. Francis switched off his headlamp, and the others followed suit. Feliciano didn't seem to be paying very much attention, so Ludwig had to switch his off for him. Ivan drank in the scene before they got up to move on up the Southeast Ridge. For once, they were able to look down upon the surrounding peaks, rather than up at them. Ivan smiled at the serenity of the scene, as peaceful and pristine as a painting, forever frozen in time. He was always in awe of the beauty of nature. How could the Earth create such scenes all on its own, without the touch of human hands? Like the actions of his father, the natural word was something he could neither understand nor control, and therefore, he both respected and feared it.

Twenty-five minutes had passed. Alfred had let them rest an additional five minutes before he told them they should probably get moving. They all dragged themselves wearily to their feet. "Hey, Ludwig, can you come up and lead with me?" Alfred asked the German, who nodded in response. Ahead of them lay the rocky buttress of the Southeast Ridge. Much of it was covered in waist-deep snow, and the two strongest climbers on the expedition had to break the trail for the rest of the team. Before they started to plod on toward the South Summit, Alfred said, "Oh, and guys…I've set our turn-around time at 1 p.m. If we're not within half an hour from the summit at that time, we need to start descending so we can get back to Camp Four before nighttime." They were still at least four hours from the summit, which meant they had time to make up if they were to reach that 1 p.m. goal.

Alfred, who was still climbing without bottled oxygen, thrust himself mercilessly into the snow and plowed forward, hewing a path for the rest of the team. This section of the climb was not fixed with ropes either, and the snow was unstable under Ivan's feet. He was afraid the snow would shift and cause him to pitch straight off the side of the mountain and into the Western Cwm, countless miles below him. Feliciano was just ahead of Ivan. The Italian always had to climb either directly in front of or directly behind Ludwig in order to feel secure. The snow reached up to about the middle of Feliciano's stomach instead of hitting just at the waist, as it did on the other climbers. That just made the Italian's job harder. Ivan's pace was slowed to a crawl. Alfred and Ludwig adjusted the rate of their own footfalls so they could stay closer to the rest of the team. Each step was nerve-wracking and painstakingly slow. It took them over three hours to reach the South Summit, a tiny peak protruding from the ridge that resembled the actual summit. That was longer than it typically took the average climber. They rested for an additional twenty minutes before venturing back onto the fixed ropes of the Hillary Step, a vertical rock face only forty feet high that was the last real obstacle between the group and the summit. They ascended the fixed ropes quickly and easily. Even Feliciano stepped with haste up the rocky ledge, probably because the pre-summit adrenaline was starting to kick in.

"Look at this," Ludwig commented. "I've heard there are often bottlenecks at the Hillary Step, but we've got it all to ourselves."

"Yeah, dude!" Alfred exclaimed. "Maybe that's because we're the only idiots crazy enough to try to summit after a climbing season as fucked up as this one."

Once they'd cleared the Hillary Step, about a hundred feet still separated them from the summit. The path flattened out, and as it did, Ivan glanced upwards, straining to catch a glimpse of the tip of the jagged peak above him. But he couldn't see it. All he could see was a series of rising humps of powdery snow. Each time he climbed over one of the small slopes, his breath caught in his throat as he glanced around in every direction, checking to see if he had reached the summit. But he always found that he still had room to ascend. They climbed an additional twenty minutes in total silence. The tension and anticipation was carved onto the faces of each expedition member, even Ludwig, who seemed to be perpetually somber and serious. Then, all at once, Alfred's motion halted just above him. Ivan joined him and found that there was no more length of mountain to ascend. The vertical tilt of the snow and ice had just…stopped. Soon, Ludwig, Feliciano, Francis, and Pasang met the two of them. "Congratulations, everyone," Alfred breathed as an electric grin consumed the entirety of his face. "You're all standing on top of the world."

"We…we _made it_?" Feliciano asked, stunned. He spoke those words as if he'd fully expected not to be able to reach the summit.

"We did," Alfred said between gasps for air. He had been looking pretty strong, even without the aid of bottled oxygen, but here, at the rooftop of the world, even his strength was being tested.

Alfred's grin was infectious. Ivan felt it absorbed onto his own face, and then it spread to the other members of the group, as though it was a powerful and fast-acting disease. His gaze wandered around as he drank in the view from the summit. It seemed as though the entire world was spread out below him and around him. From here, he could see the tiny golden spire of Tengboche temple, where they had prayed before embarking on their Everest journey, the city of Kathmandu and its polluted chaos, and, to his other side, Tibet. He shifted his stance just slightly and realized that he now had one foot in Nepal and one foot in China as he straddled the mighty summit. His eyes slid back toward Alfred. Gently, he removed his oxygen mask, stepped toward the American, and pulled him into a kiss. Their lips met firmly and briefly, yet passionately. It was so odd to think…how many people in the world would have the chance to kiss the person they cared about at the highest point on the globe, while standing in two different countries simultaneously? Surely only a handful. Of the small number of people who reached the summit of Everest, an even smaller number were able to take the one they loved with them, or to find companionship in the most desolate of Earth's environments. And Ivan was now one of them.

That was an honor not even Ivan's father would ever taste. He realized it now as he replaced his oxygen mask and once again breathed the clean, dry air. Even though geographically, Nepal was not as far away from Russia as other countries were, he felt that at that moment, he could have never been further from his father's influence. He had done this all on his own – by the strength of his own body and in spite of Vladimir's constant efforts to break him down. "_Who's not enough of a man now, motherfucker?"_ Ivan yelled in Russian, a sound that stirred the entire summit in spite of how his words reverberated off the sides of his oxygen mask.

"What's that, Ivan?" Alfred asked with a smile.

"Don't you just feel like you can see the whole world from up here? Because I do," Ivan replied.

"Yes, yes I do."

"I was basically telling my father to go fuck himself. I know it's not true, but I feel like he can hear me all the way from Russia." Ivan chuckled, and so did Alfred. They both turned their attention to Feliciano and Ludwig, who were now locked in a kiss of their own. They clung to each other twice as long as Alfred and Ivan had, as if they needed to breathe the air from each other's lungs in order to survive – as if bottled oxygen alone wasn't good enough.

As the two pulled apart, Francis shook his head. "I feel left out!" he said with a laugh. "I don't have anyone to kiss!"

"I wouldn't want you to feel left out, Francis," Feliciano replied jokingly. The big grin on his face belied his complete and total exhaustion. Answering the Italian's touch of humor, Francis leaned in toward Feliciano, lips puckered. Feliciano froze for a moment, wide-eyed, and then backed up a few steps. Ivan guessed he thought the Frenchman was actually going to try kissing him.

"You'd better not!" Ludwig barked. "_I will end you!_"

Francis backed away and held up his hands defensively. "Oh, Ludwig, I was only joking! I wouldn't really. I'm fully aware Feliciano's ass belongs to you and you alone."

Feliciano giggled. "You bet it does!" he said.

Ludwig rolled his eyes. "You all are weirdoes, you know that? _All of you._"

Seeing Feliciano so happy, energized, and playful lifted Ivan's spirits. On the way up, he had looked so defeated, but it seemed as if setting his feet upon the summit had rejuvenated him. "Oh, but you love us, Ludwig," Ivan shot back, feeling that it was the right moment to get on the joke.

"Of course he loves us," Alfred added. "He's just in denial." They all laughed, even Ludwig. Pasang removed the roll of prayer flags from his pack and unfurled them, stringing them neatly in a circle that surrounded the entire team. Alfred stuck a tiny American flag and a Canadian flag into the snow. "The Canadian one's for my cousin Mattie," he explained. "I've always wished he'd climb with me."

Ivan unclipped the metal eagle pin from his ushanka and placed it next to Alfred's American flag. "_Russia's not an obsolete country,_" he whispered in his native tongue. "_You've made it to the top of the world, Russia, and you will leave your mark here forever, next to America. Russia and America together. We don't have to be enemies."_ In that moment, he felt strangely peaceful, in spite of the challenge of descent that lay ahead of them.

Francis withdrew a small smattering of climbing equipment from his pack. He set a few carabineers, a pair of well-rusted pitons, and an old and worn rope down next to the small collection of objects already lying on the summit. Next, he laid a framed photo of three grinning blondes next to the worn climbing equipment. There was an adult man and woman, and between the two, an energetic teen with bright blue eyes. "_Mon cher papa,_" Francis said, "you almost made it to the summit of Everest, but you had to turn back. So I've climbed with the hope that I can more than make up for you. This is the third time I've stood on top of the world. This one's for you."

"Awww," Alfred cooed, "is that a little Francis I see in that picture?"

"_Oui!"_

"You were so cute back then," Alfred mused jokingly. "What happened?" Francis only rolled his eyes and smacked his American friend lightly in the stomach.

Ludwig placed a set of dog tags and a photo of himself and a friend next to the other items in the snow. His face fell as he regarded the objects. The photo rustled gently in the wind. "Hans, I wish you could still be here. I wish you could have lived to reach the summit of Everest with me. But I know you would be happy that I made it," he said.

Feliciano placed a hand on Ludwig's shoulder and gave him a sympathetic smile. "I'm sorry, Luddy," he said. "I'm sure Hans is looking down on you from heaven right now. I'm sure he's proud of you."

Ludwig took Feliciano's hand from his shoulder and held it in both his hands. "Thank you, _meine schatz._ Hey…aren't you going to leave anything on the summit?"

With a strangely ironic chuckle, Feliciano said, "Nah. You know why? The person I want to share the summit with is already standing right next to me."

"_Nein,_ you have to," Ludwig said firmly, but through a smile. "I want _Miyolangsangma _to remember forever that she has been conquered by Feliciano Vargas." He tore the paper baggage tag from the handle of Feliciano's backpack, lifted the dog-tag necklace he had placed in the snow only moments ago, set the baggage tag down, and laid the dog tags on top of the strip of paper. Feliciano eyed the tag as its edges fluttered in the wind. It read, _FCO/MOW, MOW/DEL, DEL/KTM_, _Vargas._ Those were the airport codes for Rome, Italy; Moscow, Russia; New Delhi, India; and most importantly, Kathmandu, Nepal. It captured only a small portion of the journey all six of them had taken to reach the summit, but it did indeed mark every step Feliciano took that brought him to the country from which their Everest journey had begun. "There," Ludwig said, satisfied.

Alfred clapped his gloved hands together. "All right, bitches," he said joyfully. "It's time we turn this movable feast around. It's already…" He pushed the sleeve of his down jacket aside in order to look at his watch. "Holy shit, it's almost 2:30 p.m.! We need to get going." With that, they all roused themselves wearily and prepared for the long journey back to Camp Four.

* * *

The joy and adrenaline that had surged within Feliciano on the summit dissipated almost instantly. When he imagined the five to seven hours it would take to return to Camp Four, it made him feel sick inside. He felt completely and totally spent already – the way he'd imagined it should feel to crawl back into camp after having climbed for nearly twelve hours. But the day was only halfway over. Alfred led the team back down off the summit. They halted at the edge of the Hillary Step and watched the members of Roderich Edelstein's _Spitze Treck_ expedition haul themselves up the fixed ropes. "Let's let these guys get up here before we start to head down," Alfred instructed.

Roderich was the first to make it over the rocky ridge protruding up out of the snow. "Hello, Alfred," he greeted. For the first time, he'd used the American's first name rather than calling him "_Herr_ Jones."

"Hi, Roderich! Hey, you guys just need to keep pushing. You're so close to the top!" Alfred replied.

"So I take it you all have reached the summit?" the Austrian said.

"Yeah we did!" Alfred's voice was bursting with pride. "It's…it's…I can never get over how it feels. To be up there. There's nothing like it."

Roderich smiled and offered Alfred his hand. "Congratulations to you and your team," he said.

"Thanks!" Alfred said as he accepted the offered hand and shook it vigorously. "Good luck to you guys!"

Roderich offered a polite "_danke_" before he turned his attention to Feliciano. Normally, the Italian would have wanted to pull his Austrian friend into a big hug and greet him joyfully, as he did with all his close friends, but he was far too fatigued to exert any extra energy. Instead, he raised somber brown eyes to Roderich's purple ones and gave the other man a weak little nod. Roderich met his gaze with pity. "Oh, come here, you," he said with a conciliatory air as he rolled his eyes and held out his arms. Feliciano stepped into them without a word of protest but did not return the embrace. "You don't look so good, Feliciano," the Austrian commented.

"I don't feel so good," he admitted.

"Well, take care of yourself, _ja?"_

Feliciano breathed a shaky "_si_" as Roderich led his team upward toward the summit.

It took almost two hours to descend back down the Hillary Step. By contrast, when they had ascended, they had reached the top of the ridge in just over an hour. When Feliciano's crampons once again found level ground, he suddenly felt dizzy. He bent over forward with his hands on his knees and moaned into his oxygen mask. He was aware of nothing more than the ache that consumed every inch of his head and body, and the flips and somersaults his stomach was doing. "Feli, _meine schatz,_ are you all right?" Ludwig asked. The familiar intonation of concern had crept back into his voice.

Without raising his head to glance at Ludwig, Feliciano grabbed the German's arm and held it for dear life as his vision swam. "N-no, I…I feel kind of funny," he croaked, his throat dry and burning from the moistureless flow of oxygen from the tank he carried on his back. "I think I'm going to…" Ludwig needed nothing more than that. He didn't let Feliciano finish his sentence. Instead, he yanked the oxygen mask from the Italian's face just in time for him to vomit onto the well-trampled snow. Feliciano let his eyes slide shut for a moment. He felt a pair of hands running down his back as he heaved and choked. When the feeling subsided, he finally turned weary brown eyes toward Ludwig. "Shit," he mumbled sullenly as he wiped his mouth. "Shit, shit, fuck."

The German's eyebrows shot up. Feliciano realized it was the first time he'd cursed during the entire expedition. Well, if there was ever a fitting time to drop a few F-bombs, this was it. Ludwig recovered from the shock of hearing the Italian pronounce those foul words. "It's okay," he reassured. "You're okay. We…we just have to keep going." Everyone else nodded.

Feliciano straightened and wiped at his mouth again with the sleeve of his down jacket. But as soon as he'd returned to a standing position, he felt unbelievably lightheaded. The world seemed to spin around him. He suddenly found himself unable to speak or move. He felt his own legs buckling as he sank to his knees. Everything was blurry, and blackness encroached upon the corners of his vision. Just when he was sure he was about to lose consciousness, Feliciano found himself staring up at the rest of the group from the ground. They all hovered over him. While he could make out the lines of five faces, their features were too fuzzy and indistinct for him to discern one person from another. Five voices muttered in concern, but their words melted together into a mass of incoherent chatter. "Wh-wha-what's g-going on?" he stammered. The sound of his own voice was foreign to his ears. Colors ran together like wet paint on a palette. He became dimly aware he was shaking uncontrollably.

Suddenly, a lone voice cut through the others, the German accent unmistakable: "Feliciano! Feliciano, _meine schatz,_ stay with us…"

"Ludwig?" Feliciano mumbled. His lover's voice alone had jerked him back to life. He blinked rapidly as the blurriness dissolved from his vision. He could see Ludwig standing over him, the blonde's strong masculine face mostly obscured by his oxygen mask. But it was a comforting sight all the same. Then, the other faces came into view. Alfred, Ivan, Francis, Pasang – it was if they'd all suddenly materialized out of nowhere. "Where are we?"

The German took his hand and gripped it so hard it almost hurt. "We're right by the South Summit," he answered. "You-you don't even know where we are?"

"I think we need to get him a shot of dex," Francis said before Feliciano could speak again. Alfred, Pasang, and Ludwig muttered their agreement.

"_Dex_?" Feliciano shouted as he came to his senses. "_I don't need any fucking dex!"_ His voice cracked in the middle of his sentence, and he struggled to pronounce the last few words in between coughs. He was frantic and panicked. How did it come to this? Why couldn't he have just told Alfred he wasn't feeling well enough to summit today? He could have saved himself all this trouble. But no, he had to hang on to his foolish pride and the desire to prove his strength to his family and friends. What _strength_ was he proving now? Dex, short for dexamethasone, was a climber's last resort. It was a steroid taken in order to combat altitude sickness and to prevent high-altitude cerebral edema. Feliciano had heard it spoken of in the Alps, but he had not once seen it used. It was a sort of crutch, a safety net that climbers always kept with them but hoped they'd never have to use.

"Yes, you do need it, _cher_," Francis insisted. "Stay calm now, _oui?_" All Feliciano could do was nod. He was in no fit state to protest. Francis withdrew a little syringe from his pack. He pushed layers upon layers of fabric up and away from the Italian's arm, buried the needle into a vein, and pressed down onto the plunger. Feliciano watched languidly as the liquid drained from the syringe. He waited for an instantaneous rush of adrenaline through his veins, but the flood of energy did not come, as he'd expected. "It may take a few moments to take effect," the Frenchman explained. "Why don't we all rest here for a while?" Ludwig sat next to Feliciano and turned the dial on the Italian's oxygen mask up to four liters per minute.

After ten minutes, Feliciano started to feel better – not much better, but enough to stand shakily with Ludwig's help and continue down toward the South Summit. But his steps were painfully slow. His body ached. His head felt fuzzy, as though it had been stuffed with cotton balls. His shattering coughs broke the silence. The rest of the group started to pull away, with the exception of Ludwig, who stayed close by his side, as if he expected the Italian to collapse at any moment. At this point, that wasn't too distant a possibility. Exhaustion beyond words was chiseled onto the expressions of Alfred, Francis, Ivan, and Pasang as they struggled to slow their steps enough to allow Feliciano to keep up. He could see Ludwig scrutinizing the painful defeat that flooded the others' eyes. "Um…" the German began, quietly at first. He cleared his throat and spoke more loudly and clearly. "I think…I think you all should go on ahead of us. I'll stay with Feli and help him down. I don't want us to keep you from getting back to camp safely."

"Are you sure, dude?" Alfred asked while chewing his lip. Each new challenge on the way to the summit seemed to shake the American's once-unbreakable faith more and more.

"_Ja_," Ludwig confirmed. "We'll be fine. I will make sure of it. You get yourselves down safely."

Alfred nodded gravely. After casting one more long, worried look back in Feliciano and Ludwig's direction, he waved the other three on. Feliciano watched the last traces of their image fade as they vanished over the South Summit.

* * *

**Thanks for reading, and please review!**

**Up next: The weatherman is predicting a 99% chance of shitstorm, and it's coming right at ya! I can't tell you any more about Chapter 11 because of reasons. *evil laugh***


	11. Chapter 11: Disaster Strikes

**So as I've mentioned last chapter, I've changed my FF pen name. Still the same me, just a new name! Like in those food commercials where they're like, "new look, same great taste." Okay, that's enough.**

**Without any further ado, that shitstorm I promised y'all? Brace yourselves, because here it comes.**

* * *

Before the rest of the team set out ahead of Ludwig and Feliciano, Francis gave Ludwig an extra syringe filled with dexamethasone in case either of the two should need it. Pasang armed the German with an additional oxygen tank, which Ludwig managed to find a place for within his already-stuffed pack. Last but not least, Alfred passed Ludwig one of two radios he carried with him. The pair could use it to contact Alfred back at Camp Four, or to get in touch with Base Camp. Once the German was loaded with extra equipment, Alfred, Pasang, Ivan, and Francis forged ahead, leaving Ludwig and Feliciano to catch their breath at the bottom of the Hillary Step.

Ludwig watched them go. He noticed Alfred glancing back over his shoulder at the two of them while the rest of the team aimed their eyes forward at the exposed portion of the Southeast Ridge known as the Cornice Traverse. Alfred raised his hand in a nervous little wave before he disappeared from view. As Ludwig lifted his hand to return the gesture, he wondered if he had made the right decision in encouraging the others to advance ahead of them. But at this point, it wasn't possible to take it back. The others were surely already making their way along the traverse in pursuit of the South Summit. He turned his attention back to Feliciano, who still looked a little dazed. Touching the Italian's arm lightly, he said, "Come on, Feli. Let's go."

Feliciano nodded weakly. He inhaled deeply and shrugged his shoulders up and down, as if the symbolic gestures could magically summon whatever reserves of strength he still had left. They made their way down the Cornice Traverse and reached the little protrusion that marked the South Summit. The other members of the expedition were nowhere to be seen. Ludwig was about to ask Feliciano to sit down and rest for a while, but the Italian didn't need any instruction. Wordlessly, he flopped down onto the snow and leaned back against the rocky snow-covered protrusion jutting up from the ridge. The Italian let his eyelids slide shut as he pressed a hand to his side. His face twitched in pain. At this point, Ludwig was positive that Feliciano's coughs had cracked a few ribs. The German sat down as well and turned the dial on Feliciano's oxygen tank up even further. The two sat in total silence. The wind started to howl around them, blowing gusts of snow in their faces. The flurries that whipped up from the mountain ridge started to mix and mingle with the fresh powder that had started to fall from the sky, creating a ballet of swirling snowflakes against the sky, whose blue pigment was quickly starting to drain in favor of a muddy gray-black hue. If they weren't climbing at 27,500 feet on a volatile mountain, and if Feliciano's health weren't failing, Ludwig would have found the scene peaceful, even beautiful. He'd always loved the snow. But today, it was his enemy rather than his friend.

Before he rose to continue down the mountain, Ludwig switched out Feliciano's current oxygen tank, which was now empty, for a new one. Then, he checked the time on his climbing watch. Could it really be 6:24 p.m. already? They had been descending for four hours, and they had perhaps only made it to the halfway point. The rest of the team had probably almost reached Camp Four by now. Most likely, they were back-climbing carefully down the ice bulge right at this moment, turning their eyes behind them to the bright domes of their tents that promised safety, fresh oxygen tanks, warm meals, and warm sleeping bags. Ludwig's eyes snapped upwards from the face of his watch to the horizon. Indeed, the colors of sunset were streaking the sky, but they were mostly obscured by the escalating snowstorm. "We need to move, Feliciano," he said firmly to the resting Italian. "It's getting late."

Feliciano was barely able to struggle to his feet. After they put the South Summit behind them, they faced the unroped portion of the Southeast Ridge upon which the snow beneath their feet shifted like quicksand. The path the team had cut that morning through the waist-deep snow had vanished. Most likely, the wind had blown fresh snow in to take its place. Ludwig was about to blaze the trail for Feliciano when he heard the metallic _thunk _of crampons from behind him. He and Feliciano turned to look over their shoulder. They saw Roderich's team descending at a healthy clip toward them. He pulled the Italian aside to let the faster team pass them. _That is bad_ _news,_ Ludwig thought to himself. Roderich's team had once been a good hour and a half to two hours _behind_ them, and now they had caught up. As the Austrian passed, he gave them a look that was so startled that it was easy to believe he'd seen a UFO plunked down in the middle of the mountain rather than two fellow climbers. "Wh-what are you two still doing up here?" he asked, the shock on his face bleeding over into his voice. "And where has the rest of your group gotten to?"

"They went on ahead of us," Ludwig said. The wind blasted so loudly that he had to lean in close in order for Roderich to be able to hear him. "Feliciano's feeling really sick. He almost passed out on me earlier."

"Oh my…" Roderich said before trailing off. It seemed he couldn't think of anything else to say, and Ludwig couldn't blame him.

"You should go ahead of us, too," the German offered. "We'll only slow you down." Roderich opened his mouth as if to protest, but Ludwig raised his voice before the Austrian got the chance to speak. "I insist! Go." He thrust his pointer finger down the mountain in the direction of Camp Four.

Though it was clear the Austrian was worried, he nodded. "_Alle!"_ he called to his group. "_Lassen Sie uns weiterhin, alle_!" Close to ten climbers followed Roderich down the ridge.

Without another moment's hesitation, Ludwig surged forward into the snow and started to cut a trail for the two of them. Though he was exhausted, he felt a grave sense of urgency goading him forward. He _had_ to get Feliciano back to Camp Four as quickly as possible. He kicked at the snow ahead of him and behind him in order to flatten it as much as possible for the Italian. But even with the increased flow of oxygen, Feliciano was clearly struggling. They had made their way down only a short length of the ridge before Ludwig heard a soft _thud_ from behind him. His heart started to knock furiously in his chest as he whipped around to find the Italian lying helplessly in the snow, arms and legs spread out to his sides as though he was about to make a snow angel. Ludwig sprinted to Feliciano's side and dropped to his knees beside him. The Italian was barely conscious, panting with ragged, heavy breaths into his oxygen mask as his eyelids fluttered rapidly. Ludwig didn't know what else to do, so he cranked the flow of oxygen up to its maximum level. At this rate, the new tank would only last an hour or so, which might not be enough to get them back to Camp Four. But that was just a chance they'd have to take. "Luddy, I-I don't think I can go on anymore," Feliciano said at a whisper once he was breathing a little easier.

"Yes, you can," Ludwig said, more for his own benefit than for Feliciano's. The last time he'd been this terrified for another's life was when Hans had tumbled into a crevasse four years ago in South America. This time, he wouldn't let the one he cared about die! "We'll just rest here for a moment." He sat in the deep snow, pulled Feliciano close, and cradled the weak body in his arms in attempt to keep him warm. But then, he remembered the radio inside his pack. It was clear they shouldn't have let Alfred and the others go on ahead of them, but maybe one of them could now help the struggling pair. The German swung the pack around off his back and dug inside it to find the radio. He flicked it on and waited for the static to clear. "Alfred? Francis? Someone? Anyone? Come in, _please?"_ No answer. Ludwig forgot to breathe for a moment.

But then a voice broke through the crackling on the other end of the line. "Hey, Ludwig? It's Alfred. Where in hell _are_ you guys? Why aren't you back yet?"

"We're still on the Southeast Ridge, between the South Summit and the Balcony," Ludwig said, but the reception only worsened. A series of loud crackles and pops interrupted the signal. He could barely hear Alfred's response, but it sounded like the American had said, _What? I can't hear you._ "Alfred!" Ludwig barked, even though his voice was hoarse. "Alfred! We need help! Please come-" Before Ludwig could finish, the signal went dead. He smacked the side of the radio with his palm, lightly at first. When the signal did not return, he hit it harder, and then slammed it repeatedly against the ground into the snow. "Fuck! Fuck! You fucking piece of shit radio!" he screamed. But it was no use. The radio had died.

"Feli, _meine schatz,_ you have to stay with me," Ludwig whispered. _I couldn't handle seeing you die,_ he added in his head. If it had been difficult to watch Hans die, it would be unbearable to watch the life fade away from this Italian he'd come to care for more than he could ever imagine. Maybe…maybe he even _loved_ Feliciano. But then again, maybe that was just the exhaustion and lack of oxygen talking. That was something he'd get the chance to think about later – hopefully. Silently, he prayed that Alfred had heard their call for help, and decided they'd wait a little longer to see if the American would show up. He pulled the oxygen mask away from his face to press a kiss to Feliciano's forehead.

* * *

"Alfred! We need help! Please come-"

Ivan heard the German accent shouting over the radio before the line went dead. The color drained from Alfred's face. "They…they're in _trouble,_" the American whispered. He looked as though he was about to cry. Ivan had never seen him this shaken up before, not even when he'd lost a crampon on the way to Camp Two. But then, Alfred drew his eyebrows together in an expression of stubbornness and determination. He shook the uncertainty from his voice as he asserted, "Someone has to go after them."

This – this was crazy. They'd returned to Camp Four only half an hour ago and were just settling in to boil water for their dinner. And now Alfred was talking about sending someone _back up the mountain. _But then, the delicacy of the situation dawned upon Ivan slowly, as stunning and unfathomable as the first rays of light peeking over a hill at sunrise. The team had only two options: let Ludwig and Feliciano die, or risk some of their own lives in an attempt to rescue the pair. "I'll go," said Pasang the Sherpa.

Alfred sprang to his feet. "No!" he yelled as he grabbed Pasang's arm. "You can't. It's dangerous. _I'll_ go."

Ivan wasn't exactly sure what caused the indescribable flood of emotions that crashed upon him, but the next thing he knew, he had stood, raced to Alfred's side, grabbed him by the waist, and started to drag him backwards away from the tent's zippered entryway. "_Nyet! Nyet!_ Alfred, you can't go! You could die! _Dorogoy,_ you don't have to be a hero!" he pleaded. He clung to the American even as the other man tried to pry his hands from his waist

"Ivan, stop! Just stop!" Alfred shouted. His voice shattered Ivan's panic and brought him back to reality. "But I _do_ have to be a hero. Ludwig and Feliciano need my help, and I'm going after them _alone." _

With his arms still encircling Alfred's waist, Ivan peered into blue eyes with his purple ones. Mirrored in the other man's eyes was a look of resolve, a look that only came when one had made up his mind beyond the point at which others could reason with him. "All right," he said. He could no longer control the manifestation of his emotions, the defeat hanging in his voice. "Just promise me that…that you'll come back to me, _dorogoy."_

"I promise," Alfred said. "I'll come back to you." He took Ivan's face softly in his hands and kissed him. Then, he pulled away, shouldered a few oxygen tanks, including one he hooked up to a mask that he placed over his own face, unzipped the tent's flap, and disappeared into the inky blackness of night.

Ivan retreated back to his sleeping bag and hugged his knees to his chest. He knew that Alfred was now gambling against nature herself, playing a mediocre hand to a ruthless and cheating card shark. But the American was strong and spirited, so perhaps he had a chance. The warmth of Alfred's kiss still lingered on Ivan's lips, and he took it as a promise that he would again lay eyes upon the man he'd trusted with his darkest secrets.

* * *

Ludwig and Feliciano had waited huddled together in the snow for almost an hour. All traces of color had now vanished from the sky. Neither the stars nor the moon were visible. Gray clouds and the resulting gales of snow had swallowed all points of light in the sky, leaving it pitch-black. There had been no sign of Alfred. The German had no idea where Alfred was right now – or if he was even on his way _at all_. After switching his headlamp back on, Ludwig glanced down at Feliciano, who was sleeping nestled in his arms. His gloved fingers had curled into the fabric of Ludwig's jacket. He switched Feliciano's headlamp on, as well. Now, the two narrow beams of light illuminated the Italian's paled face. Even in sleep, his face was scrunched up in pain. Ludwig knew Feliciano would die soon if he didn't reach lower altitudes. They had to move on – without Alfred.

"Feli," Ludwig said as he nudged the sleeping Italian. "Wake up. We have to go. Right now."

When Feliciano opened his eyes, he mumbled, "I can't…I can't move…you…you just have to leave me here to die. Save yourself." Those copper-brown eyes, which normally shone with energy and charm, were now dull and lifeless.

"_Nein!"_ Ludwig shouted, much more loudly than he'd believed his weakening voice was capable of. "I will get you off this mountain, _no matter what it takes!_" He didn't know what it was that had caused him to snap – the memories of Hans, his own frustration at having been stranded on the mountain all day, or the crazy, frightening, intense, horrible, wonderful emotions he felt for the little Italian. Before he could allow logic and rational thought to get the better of him, he scooped Feliciano up into his arms and started down the Southeast Ridge.

* * *

Alfred switched on his headlamp as he emerged from the tent into the freezing night air. Now that he was breathing bottled oxygen for the first time that day, he felt strong and energized and unstoppable. "Feliciano, Ludwig, hang in there!" he called to the wind. "The _hero_ is coming to save you guys!"

Even with the steady beam of light emanating from his headlamp, Alfred could barely see through the swirling blizzard. The tint of his ski goggles obscured his vision, so he yanked them off and tossed them onto the ground. He could not be bothered to waste the time to open his backpack. Snow had already started to gather just outside the team's tent. He plunged forward into it with his head down to keep the snow from blowing into his eyes. He cut a path laboriously across the snow-covered South Col toward the ice bulge. Earlier that morning when Alfred had hewed a path in the snow for the rest of the team, he had felt like the Iron Man, not only unbreakably strong, but _hopeful_. While he prayed he would be able to locate Feliciano and Ludwig and help them down to Camp Four, his hope had been tested to its limit.

Alfred reached the ice bulge and smashed the front points of his crampons into the rock-hard tilted ice face. Even with the force of his effort, those points barely bit into the ice. He had to jam his ice axe down beside him to anchor him and keep him from sliding off. He moved carefully, his motions rhythmic but slow. Though he'd climbed this route before, it was terrifying in the dark, especially when he could barely stay on the ice face. All he could see was the narrow line of vision provided by his headlamp, and the snow that swirled in that thin strip of light. If he took a wrong step, he could slip all the way down the ice bulge and get injured – or worse, step right off the side of the mountain and fall thousands of feet down into the Western Cwm. He'd made it perhaps a hundred feet when he took a step up and found that his crampons simply would not bite into the ice. As Alfred started to slide backward, he dug his ice axe into the wall to which he clung. Thankfully, the axe stopped his fall. He drew in a shaky breath and continued.

Things went well for a while. Alfred trusted the strength of his footfalls and the quickness of his hand at the ice axe. Then, all at once, he no longer felt the firmness of solid ice as the points of his crampons bit into it. Instead, what he felt under his feet was nothing – absolutely _nothing_. By the time Alfred realized what had happened, he didn't even get the chance to scream.

* * *

Miraculously, Ludwig had been able to make it to the Balcony in decent time, considering he was carrying over a hundred pounds of Italian in his arms in addition to the weight of his pack. They stood at the lip of the Triangular Face, staring down at the set of fixed ropes that spanned the last major obstacle between themselves and Camp Four. "Feliciano, you are going to have to climb this," Ludwig said and set the Italian gingerly on his feet beside him.

But Feliciano was reeling from the moment his feet touched the ground. He started to slide to his knees, but Ludwig caught him by the waist and hauled him back into a standing position. Feliciano leaned against the larger man's body. He was gasping frantically into his oxygen mask, his eyes wide with panic. "Lu-Lud-Ludwig, help me…m-my oxygen…it…I think it ran out," he sputtered, grabbing the German's arm and tugging at it incessantly.

Ludwig was tempted to go into panic mode himself. What could he do? He'd given Feliciano their only spare oxygen tank about two hours ago. There was nothing left he…_wait_. As he heard the reverberations of his breaths into the oxygen mask, he remembered he had his own oxygen tank. It was the _only way. _He could survive for a while without bottled oxygen, but Feliciano couldn't. He removed the mask, pulled the tank away from his back, and hooked the tank up to the Italian's mask. He cranked it up to just over four liters per minute, which was under full capacity, but it might – _might _– be just enough to get them back to Camp Four, where plenty of fresh oxygen tanks would be waiting. "No, Ludwig, you can't do that!" Feliciano protested weakly. "You are going to get yourself killed without bottled oxygen! I…I can't let you die on my account. You should just…"

"Shut up!" Ludwig commanded roughly. Feliciano flinched visibly at the brusque tone of voice. "I'm sorry, _meine schatz,_" he said, touching the Italian's arm lightly. "I will be fine. I'm strong enough. I've completed the Seven Summits." The sound of his own words shocked him a little. _I've completed the Seven Summits._ That phrase resonated in Ludwig's mind. Having reached the summit of Everest, he had now summited the highest mountain in every continent on the globe. It was an achievement he'd been dreaming of and chasing after since the day he started ice climbing. But now that it was his – now that he'd accomplished his goal – it was so much more bittersweet than he'd imagined. Then again, he'd never imagined that in the process, he'd fall in love with a sweet Italian who was now clinging to the edge of life itself.

At Ludwig's promise, Feliciano nodded hesitantly. Ludwig eyed the set of fixed ropes. Though Feliciano was now standing without falling over, his hands were trembling. The German doubted whether those shaking hands would be precise enough to be able to navigate the fixed ropes. "Take off your crampons," he told the Italian. "You're going to ride on my back." He shed his backpack and tossed it to the side.

At this point, Feliciano seemed to be aware he didn't have much room to argue with Ludwig. He steadied himself with a hand on the taller man's shoulder as he yanked off the metal sets of spikes. He opened his pack, wrapped the crampons carefully in a soft layer of clothing, and stuffed them inside. Ludwig crouched in front of Feliciano, who wrapped his arms tightly around the German's neck and wound his legs around his body. The German stood slowly with Feliciano clinging to him. Interestingly, the weight of the body on his back wasn't that much heavier than the backpack he'd just discarded.

Ludwig started to make his way slowly down the set of fixed ropes. It was harder to handle the ice axe with Feliciano's arms around his neck. He moved carefully, but as quickly as he could. If anything went wrong – from the fixed ropes to the jumars attaching them to the ropes to their crampons to Feliciano's oxygen tank – it would cost them both their lives. Ludwig tried to focus on his motions down the ropes, the simple actions that he had learned and memorized in nearly twelve years of ice-climbing experience. But he couldn't clear his mind. His thoughts kept wandering to the Italian clinging to him – to the _man he loved_. His every action was bent on keeping Feliciano alive. Either he'd get them both off the mountain, or they'd both die trying. Somehow, even though they'd only known each other for two months, the thought of living without Feliciano was unbearable. How – _how_? It made no sense, especially for Ludwig, who didn't tend to get emotional or attached so easily.

They reached the bottom of the Triangular Face. Ludwig breathed a shaky sigh of relief and started to cross the short expanse of flat ground. He found himself staring down at the tilted wall of ice known as the ice bulge. "_Scheisse_! I forgot about that!" he thought aloud. How could they descend the last obstacle standing between themselves and Camp Four? Feliciano was much too tired to climb it himself. And the ice was too hard and difficult to navigate with the Italian riding on his back. Was this it? Was this the end? Would they have to give up here, only a few hundred vertical feet above Camp Four? Ludwig eyed the ice bulge, figuring its every angle. It dawned upon him – they'd have to slide down. Ludwig had practiced controlled slides down ice walls before, but had never needed to use it in an emergency situation before. But that was the reason he'd practiced, right? "Feli, are you still with me?" he said.

"B-barely," Feliciano replied.

"Barely" was just enough for Ludwig. "We're going to slide down," he told the Italian. "I'm going to let you off my back. I'm going to sit down, and you're going to sit in my lap facing me with your arms around my neck. I'll steer with my crampons." It was an incredibly risky move. If they slid too far to their left, they'd fall right off the side of the mountain. And if Ludwig dug his crampons too hard into the ice, he'd launch them both forward into the air. If that happened, he could land on top of Feliciano and crush the smaller body underneath him. But once again, it was the only option they had. He sat, and Feliciano settled into his lap. "Hold on tight," the German instructed. Once they were secure, Ludwig scooted to the edge of the ice bulge, released a quivering breath, and pushed off with his crampons.

The ice bulge was incredibly slick, so they traveled at speeds Ludwig wasn't quite prepared for. Wind whistled past their ears as they glided. By the light of his headlamp, the German could barely see the drop-off about twenty feet to their left. They'd put enough space between it and themselves to remain safe unless they started to drift very quickly. Ludwig gently pressed the points of his crampons into the ice to slow their slide. The pair started to lurch forward, so he lifted his feet again and gave in to the pace at which the mountain carried them downward. Clearly, the ice was too firm to allow much control in what was supposed to be a "controlled slide." In that moment, Ludwig noticed he was shaking almost as hard as Feliciano, but for him, it was out of fear that something would go wrong.

After only two minutes of sliding, they bounced off the ice bulge and plopped into the snow. They'd made it. Ludwig picked Feliciano up again and carried him the short remaining distance to the tents of Camp Four, which glowed from within as though they were beacons of hope embodied in a physical form. The orange color of the Summit Adventures tent was immediately visible to Ludwig. There was another set of tents in a bright lime-green hue that he could only guess belonged to Roderich and his team. He pushed aside the flap of the tent he knew Francis and Pasang shared. As the two entered, Francis' head snapped up. He looked at them as if they were ghosts. "_Mon Dieu,_" he breathed. "Y-you're here. You're okay."

Ludwig chuckled humorlessly. "I wouldn't say 'okay,' but we're here and we're alive," he said. "Francis, grab some oxygen tanks and follow me to my tent."

Francis scrambled to his feet and gathered a pair of oxygen tanks in his arms. He hurried after Ludwig as they crossed over into the tent he shared with Feliciano. He set the Italian down gingerly into his sleeping bag and pulled the down-filled fabric up around the shivering body. Feliciano peered up at Ludwig with a somewhat relieved glint in those weary brown eyes. "You…we made it…I…"

Ludwig leaned down, pulled the oxygen mask away from Feliciano's face, and laid a finger over his lips. "Shh, _meine schatz._ You will need to get some sleep," he whispered.

"You…you saved my life, Ludwig," he mumbled, obviously fighting to stay awake enough to speak those words. Francis gave Feliciano a fresh tank of oxygen, its flow cranked up to full capacity, and was about to offer him some hot tea and something to eat, but he'd fallen asleep the second he started to breathe the glorious thick oxygen. Ludwig took the Italian's hand in his and gave it a quick, gentle squeeze before he straightened to face Francis.

"I…I can't believe you made it," the Frenchman offered. "But…where is Alfred?"

Alfred? _Alfred?_ As they'd descended, the American guide had been the last thing on Ludwig's mind. "What do you mean, where is Alfred?" he said in disbelief.

"He came up to rescue you two."

Ludwig blinked. Francis' words didn't register in his mind. He was too exhausted and oxygen-starved to be able to fully comprehend. After all, he had climbed for nearly two hours without bottled oxygen. "We didn't see him," he said.

"Not at all?"

"_Nein._" As that single word fell from Ludwig's lips, he realized the gravity of the situation. Alfred was probably still out there somewhere. The fact that they hadn't crossed paths with the American on their way down wasn't a good sign. Ludwig realized Alfred was probably dead, or very close to death, by now. Had he succumbed to hypothermia, or had he fallen off the side of the mountain? There was no way of knowing.

As he met Francis' gaze, he knew the Frenchman was having the same thoughts. Francis cleared his throat. "Well, right now, there is nothing we can do about it," he said. "We are all much too tired. We can go out and rescue Alfred tomorrow."

Ludwig nodded, but he knew the Frenchman was just trying to make them both feel better. It was true – there was nothing any of them could do about it without getting themselves killed as well. All Ludwig could do was pull on a fresh oxygen mask and lay down next to Feliciano. He wrapped both arms around the sleeping Italian and spooned up to him so their bodies fit together perfectly. The way Feliciano's oxygen mask fogged as he breathed into it comforted Ludwig. It reminded him the man in his arms was alive. Heavy with exhaustion after having been awake for almost a full 24 hours, Ludwig let his eyelids slide shut. As sleep started to overtake him, the sweet relief he felt at their return to camp mingled with worry for Alfred. But at least he'd managed to rescue the man he loved.


	12. Chapter 12: Descent

**Oh, just because I don't want to put any author's notes at the end of the chapter for the purpose of effect, in case you don't know any French at all, **_**je suis vraiment désolé **_**means I am truly sorry. Oh, and several POV character changes in this chapter. I decided to shake things up and write from Francis' POV for a little bit.**

* * *

Ludwig had nudged Feliciano awake this morning, as he had almost every morning. But today it was different.

The Italian woke to the sound of his breath echoing in the oxygen mask. He opened his heavy eyelids against surging pain in side. He clutched at his side with both hands and whimpered into the oxygen mask, which made an eerie whistling sound in response. But at least he was breathing easily. With the tank's knob cranked up to allow the maximum flow of oxygen to his lungs, he had slept soundly – better than he had in weeks. Ludwig pulled the mask gently from Feliciano's face and titled the Italian's chin up until they looked each other in the eye. The German kissed him softly, their tongues barely brushing. "How are you feeling, _meine schatz?"_ he asked.

"O-okay, I guess," Feliciano said shakily, still half-asleep and heavy with warmth from the sweet abundance of oxygen. "Luddy, everything hurts…"

Ludwig stroked Feliciano's cheek with the back of his palm. "Yes, I know. We – ah, Francis and I – we are fairly certain you've cracked a few ribs. And I'm sure you're very tired."

Feliciano gave a little nod. The German helped Feliciano into a sitting position. He was passed a huge bottle of water. As the first drops of liquid touched his lips, he realized just how thirsty he was. He wrapped both hands around the bottle and titled his head back, sipping furiously. He finished the entire bottle in what seemed like no time at all. Pasang handed a bowl of noodles to Ludwig, who in turn held it out to Feliciano. "Please eat, Feli," Ludwig said. "You need it." Feliciano nodded. He was surprised that he didn't feel hungry, but he ate anyway. Holding the bowl close to his face, the Italian slurped the noodles. One slipped off the end of his fork and splashed back into his bowl, sending little droplets of sauce onto his face. Ludwig chuckled softly.

Feliciano started to laugh, too, but the slightest convulsive movement of his lungs sent jets of pain through his side. He ran his hands through his messy hair. His index finger and thumb found the base of his single curl, which had been crumpled at some point during the seemingly endless expanse of time that comprised yesterday. Pulling it straight out to its end, he let it spring back into place, and it curled back into its original shape. He started to feel more awake and a little less shaky. Between the food, the water, and the oxygen, the Italian felt as though he had been jerked back to life, as if from the dead. But he had slept so heavily and so dreamlessly that night that it had almost felt as though he _had_ been dead. For the first time that morning, Feliciano's eyes moved across his surroundings. He noticed the strangely sad expression on Ludwig's face. He glanced at Ivan, who was seated atop his sleeping bag, hugging his knees to his chest, his purple eyes frozen and distant. He looked hopelessly melancholy. Francis sat beside him, a hand on his shoulder, which the Russian did not seem to acknowledge. Finally, Feliciano's eyes hovered over Pasang, who stood in the corner of the tent, cradling his own bowl of noodles in his hand. It felt as though something was…missing. His eyes moved back to Ivan. Wait, why was it _Francis_ who sat beside him rather than Alfred? _Alfred. _That was it. Where was that American?

"Ludwig…" Feliciano asked hesitantly as a feeling of dread grew in the pit of his stomach. "Where's Alfred?"

"Ah…" Ludwig's breath caught in his throat. Ivan, Francis, and Pasang all jerked their heads in Feliciano's direction in perfect unison. Ivan's bottom lip quivered. "Feliciano." The Italian swallowed hard. Ludwig rarely used his full name anymore. "I am so sorry. Alfred is missing. We believe he may be dead."

"What? No!" Feliciano shouted. His voice cracked, and his side ached. "No, he can't be, no, he's not. Tell me you're lying. Tell me you're kidding. No, he's just in another…he's out…no…"

Sighing, Ludwig silenced Feliciano in the only way he knew how: with a kiss. "It's true," he said as he pulled away slowly.

"What happened?"

"He…" Ludwig paused and glanced at Francis, who gave him an uncertain little nod. "He went up the mountain to rescue us and simply never returned. We are not sure what happened to him. We guess he is probably dead by now."

Feliciano grabbed both of Ludwig's hands and searched the German's sharp yet beautiful blue eyes. "C-can't we go out and try to rescue him?" he asked. Yesterday, he'd been so sure _he_ would die that he hadn't given much thought to the other members of the expedition, especially those who were waiting for them back at Camp Four. He was overcome with sudden guilt. Its unbearable weight sank into the pit of his stomach and made him feel sick again.

"Francis and I have discussed that," Ludwig said. "We've decided that we can't go after Alfred. As a group, we're too weak. We…"

"You never told me that!" Ivan roared suddenly. His purple eyes, usually so peaceful, were filled with anger. He stood from his place atop his sleeping bag, his hands balled into fists. "If none of you will go look for him, then _I will_!" He snatched up his pack from the ground and started to head for the tent's entrance.

"Ivan, _non_!" Francis yelled. He raced after the Russian, grabbed his arm, and tried to pull him back. But Ivan yanked his arm away easily and pushed open the tent's flap. Ludwig barreled after him. Ludwig and Francis each grabbed one of Ivan's arms. He writhed and struggled in their grasp while yelling what Feliciano could only assume were Russian curses. But then, his ears caught one phrase he could understand:

"Let me go! I have to find _moy dorogoy_!"

Ludwig and Francis worked together to drag Ivan laboriously back into the tent. Even though there were two of them, they could barely control the strong Russian. "Ivan!" Ludwig said sharply. "You can't go back up there! None of us are strong enough to stay at Camp Four any longer! We have to…"

"But Alfred is out there!" Ivan protested.

Ludwig's voice softened. He looked into Ivan's wide, frantic purple eyes with sympathy. "If Alfred is still out there, he is probably dead by now. We can radio the other guides who are still making summit bids to keep an eye out for him. But right now, we have to focus on getting _ourselves_ down alive," he said. "Ivan, I'm so sorry," he added.

Ivan had stopped struggling. Francis and Ludwig released their hold on his arms. He glanced at them guiltily. "I suppose you're right," he said, sounding utterly defeated. He flopped back down onto his sleeping bag.

Feliciano felt so bad for Ivan, but attempting a high-altitude rescue at this point, when the group members were already tired and struggling, could put their lives in danger. As he glanced at Ivan, whose face was downcast, amethyst eyes shining with held-back tears, Feliciano's own eyes filled with tears, which slipped freely down his cheeks. Unlike the others on the expedition, he didn't seem to be able to control his emotions very well, and he silently admonished himself for it. "So all of this happened to Alfred because of _me,_" Feliciano said, his voice quivering.

"_Nein_, _meine schatz…" _Ludwig started to reassure Feliciano.

Before Ludwig could say anything else, Ivan's eyes flicked from the ground to Feliciano. "You…" he whispered tensely. "It…was…_you._ You are the reason Alfred went back out there. Because _you_ couldn't handle Mount Everest."

"I-Ivan, I'm s-so sorry…" Feliciano stammered between sobs. He stared at his hands. He simply couldn't bear to look into Ivan's face for another moment, for the Russian's expression was defeated, helpless, guilt-ridden, and broken all at once in a way that made Feliciano's heart ache. He felt he had somehow caused Alfred's death. He felt just as guilty as if he'd actually had the American's blood on his hands.

"You little _shit_…" Ivan said under his breath. Then…it happened so fast, Feliciano's mind couldn't quite form a complete picture of that moment. All he knew was that one instant, he was sitting propped against his pillow, and the next, he was pinned under the enormous weight of Ivan's body. Ivan stared him down relentlessly. The way that those purple eyes seemed to be probing right into his soul made Feliciano squirm, so he looked away, searching the tent for a glimpse of Ludwig.

Feliciano tried to move. He tried to free himself. But Ivan's big hands had clamped down onto his bony shoulders, and his body was so frail and depleted in comparison to the physical vigor Ivan had seemed to miraculously maintain as they made their way up the mountain, so his efforts were wasted. "Please, please, stop, please," Feliciano found himself begging. "Stop, Ivan, let me go…I…I'm sorry…I didn't mean…I…please…I'm sorry!"

One of the Russian's hands lifted from Feliciano's shoulder and seized his slender wrist. He held it with an iron grasp and started twisting it slowly. The Italian whimpered in pain and then started wailing apologies, his words tumbling over each other, his mind blank, his heart pounding incessantly in his chest. "I…want…Alfred…back!" Ivan growled haltingly as he continued twisting Feliciano's arm.

Suddenly, Ludwig and Francis fell upon Ivan. Both heaved with the effort of dragging the huge Russian for the second time that morning. "Ivan, _stop!_ Get off of him!" Ludwig bellowed. He single-handedly lifted the Russian to his feet and stared right into purple eyes with his blue ones. The tenderness with which he'd regarded Feliciano moments ago had melted away, leaving unforgiving coldness in the German's narrowed turquoise orbs. "You leave my Feli alone!" There was an audible _crack_ of flesh against flesh as Ludwig smacked Ivan across the face with one hand while the other gripped the Russian's arm with as much force as possible. Ivan twisted and struggled, trying to free himself from the German's grasp. A red mark spread across his pale cheek. "It wasn't Feliciano's fault and you know it!" Ludwig shouted. "Alfred _chose_ to come after us! He didn't have to! You know that better than anyone!" The corners of his mouth were pulled down into an enraged sneer.

All of a sudden, Ivan stopped struggling and let his weight collapse into Ludwig's arms. He glanced first at Ludwig, then at Feliciano, who was cowering curled up on his sleeping bag, remaining stunned and motionless where Ivan had pinned him moments ago. Those purple eyes clouded over with guilt as the anger dissipated from his expression. "_Bozhe moi_…I'm so sorry…Feliciano….I didn't mean it," he mumbled.

Feliciano couldn't find the words with which to respond. His breath came in ragged gasps as tears rolled unstoppably down his cheeks. He wasn't sure what was more horrifying: the sensation of being trapped underneath the strong Russian with pain shooting through his arm, or the raw fury with which Ludwig had responded. The German's expression softened, leaving no trace of the altercation of the previous moment visible on his face. "Ivan, can I let you go?" he asked. "You're not going to hurt Feli anymore?"

"_N-nyet…_I won't…" was all Ivan could manage to say.

Ludwig seemed satisfied. He released Ivan, who staggered backwards a few steps and would have fallen over if he hadn't reached out to steady himself on Francis' shoulder. Without another word or even a glance in the Russian's direction, Ludwig returned to Feliciano's side. He pulled the Italian into his arms and held him as he trembled in panic. Feliciano stiffened in the German's embrace and dropped his eyes to the ground as tears dripped off the end of his nose. He had never seen that side of Ludwig before – so angry, so aggressive. Honestly, it scared him a bit. Ludwig must have sensed that. He brushed the Italian's damp cheek with the back of his hand, leaned in close, rested their foreheads together, and whispered, "Oh, _meine schatz_, I'm so sorry I snapped like that. I…I just…I feel like I want to protect you. The idea of you getting hurt…" He hesitated. Feliciano lifted his gaze and looked again into Ludwig's eyes. Even though his vision was blurred with tears, he could see that the familiar softness and tenderness had returned to the German's ice-blue eyes. "The idea of you getting hurt scares me," Ludwig finally admitted. "Can you forgive me, Feli?"

"Of course I can forgive you," Feliciano said as he relaxed into Ludwig's arms. _You were only trying to protect me,_ he added in his head. In that moment, buried in the safety of the stronger man's arms, an indescribable wave of emotion gripped Feliciano, incessant, powerful, unavoidable, and tugging relentlessly at his heart. As much as he tried to be friends with everyone he met, Ludwig was different somehow. He struggled to come up with the right word for it. Even though it was usually easy for the Italian to describe the emotions he felt, he suddenly found himself stunned and sweetly breathless as he met Ludwig's eyes with his own. The one word that flickered across his mind, in Italian rather than English, was _amore._ But as soon as he had formed that word in his thoughts, he silently scolded himself. He imagined what Lovino would say to him, as clearly as though his brother was standing before him in their tent at Camp Four: _You idiot! You've only known him for two months! How can it be _amore_? You are a fool, _fratello_. Haven't you learned yet not to trust others so easily?_

Though Ludwig's embrace had succeeded in slowing the maddening thrumming of Feliciano's heart in his chest, he found himself unable to control the sobs that still shook his chest. "Please stop crying, Feli," Ludwig whispered. "You are going to wear yourself out like that. You will need every ounce of strength you can get for today. We need to get out of Camp Four." Feliciano nodded, drew in a shaky breath, and commanded himself inwardly to stop sobbing. Once he'd calmed himself down a little, he finally dressed and readied himself for another day of climbing.

* * *

Before the five of them left Camp Four, Francis radioed all other expeditions in range of the signal to see if they'd seen Alfred the previous day. Roderich Edelstein and the expedition he led had already cleared out of Camp Four about two hours ago and paused just below the Geneva Spur to answer the call. With a voice full of sorrow, Roderich replied that he hadn't seen or heard from Alfred since they'd passed the Summit Adventures team on their way to the summit. Francis and Roderich wished each other luck. The IMAX team, who still had plans to make a summit attempt within the next few days, promised they'd keep an eye out for Alfred. No other expeditions answered Francis' radio call. Most of them had already summited a week ago, or had given up at their summit chances in light of the disastrous season the mountain had already seen. Fearing there was nothing else they could do, Francis and Ludwig decided it was imperative that they all descend to lower altitudes, where they'd be safer and healthier – especially for Feliciano. Though the Italian was feeling better after having rested and eaten, his health was still at risk if he stayed in the Death Zone any longer.

On their way back down to Camp Three, all five remaining members of the group continued to use bottled oxygen. Typically, climbers needed oxygen only once they reached Camp Four, but after what had happened on summit day, they were taking no risks. Alfred, who had become adept at planning for expeditions, had ordered about ten more oxygen tanks than he estimated the team would need, and he had sent porters and Sherpas ahead of them to stock the extra tanks at Camp Four. This meant that they each had two oxygen tanks to use on their descent to the next camp that they would not have had if the American hadn't ordered extras. It seemed as though Alfred had remained the expedition's hero, even after his death.

Feliciano's hands were clumsy and weak as they descended. His hands fumbled with his ice axe. He could barely keep a grip on it, and occasionally, it would start to slide through his fingers. At each movement of his axe into the ice, pain shot through his wrist and into his fingers. Each _thunk_ the axe made was punctuated by a tiny whimper of pain the Italian tried, but failed, to keep from tumbling from his lips. For a moment, Feliciano wondered why his wrist hurt so much. Then he pushed up the sleeve on his right arm and saw that a fresh blue and red bruise spread across his right wrist. That had been the wrist that Ivan had twisted just hours ago.

Ivan was completely silent the entire way to Camp Three. Each time Feliciano locked eyes with him, he met the Italian's gaze for the most ephemeral of seconds and then looked away instantly. Each one of those glances held an apology. Feliciano wanted to say something to Ivan, to tell him it was okay, but how could _anything_ be okay when Ivan had just lost someone he cared about, far too soon after he had met him? It was Ivan who broke the tension first: "Feliciano, I…I'm very sorry about how I reacted this morning. I suppose I should not be blaming you for what happened. Alfred always had to be the hero."

"It's okay, Ivan," Feliciano replied wearily. But right now, the word _okay_ even tasted wrong in his mouth. He was far away from home. He was sick. He was exhausted. His wrist was injured. Yesterday, he'd looked death in the eye and held its gaze for a while before it finally left him alone and instead returned to victimizing others on Everest. Alfred was dead. What was _okay_ about any of that? In that moment, the only thing that was okay was Ludwig: the man climbing just in front of Feliciano, the man whom he could no longer picture living without.

"I hope you will feel better soon, Feli," Ivan added as an afterthought.

"_Grazie," _Feliciano replied. As soon as that word of thanks found its way from his lips, he started coughing again. _This mountain just can't leave me be, can it?_ he thought dejectedly.

* * *

It took the group considerably longer to descend to each camp that it had taken them to ascend. At this point, everyone was tired and struggling, even Ivan and Ludwig. It was as though their bodies had reserved just enough energy to take them to the summit before they'd all crashed at the same instant. Of course, Feliciano was struggling more than the others, as his strength had betrayed him even before he'd reached the summit. The effects of the high altitude had simply caught up with the other climbers as the surge of summit-fueled adrenaline wore off.

When they again reached Base Camp three days later, Francis realized that the group members' family and friends had surely heard of the tragedy that had occurred on the mountain and were wondering if they were all right. It occurred to Francis that they could have phoned their families using the radio once they had reached Camp Three, but they had all been too exhausted and consumed by grief to think of much else but sleep. The Frenchman's first instinct was to call his parents to let them know he was okay, and to tell his father he had again reached the summit. But then he remembered with a pang of dread that Alfred's parents would be waiting to hear from their son, and that Matthew would be anxious to talk to his cousin. He'd have to call them. Francis picked up the radio and dialed Matthew's familiar number. Usually, hearing the Canadian's voice on the other end of the line put a smile on Francis' face almost instantly. But now as the phone stopped ringing and a voice answered, "Hello?" Francis felt only sorrow and guilt. Not only did he miss Alfred already, but he also hated to imagine the kind-hearted Matthew stricken with grief at the news of his cousin's death. The Frenchman wished he could be at Matthew's side to pull him into a big hug and hold him if he cried.

"Mattie," Francis said at last once he'd collected his thoughts.

"Francis! _Ca va?_" Matthew responded cheerfully. They always greeted each other in French on the phone.

"_Ca…va…_" Francis struggled to come up with a response to a question as simple as "how's it going?" that captured the mixture of emotions he was feeling. "_Je vis,_" he replied at last. It meant simply, _I'm alive._

"How's Everest? Did you guys summit?" Matthew said.

"_Oui, _but…" Again, Francis hesitated. He just couldn't come up with the right words to say. How do you tell someone you care about that his cousin died climbing a mountain?

The change in Matthew's tone of voice was noticeable. "But what? Is everyone okay? Can I talk to Al?"

Francis exhaled shakily before continuing. It was probably best to just get it over with instead of drawing it out and making it more painful for the both of them. "Mathieu, _mon cher, _I hate to tell you this but…Alfred is dead. _Je suis…je suis vraiment d__é__sol__é._" Francis' voice started to break at the end of his last sentence. A single tear rolled down his cheek. He sniffled and tried his best to hold himself together for just a few moments.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence on the other end of the line. Francis glanced at Ivan, who stared at the Frenchman with wide, sorrowful purple eyes. On his face was a look of complete resignation. It was as if Francis' phone call to Matthew somehow solidified the reality of Alfred's death for the Russian. "W-what?" Matthew said in a tone of voice that was barely above a whisper. "You…what do you _mean_, he's dead? He…no…"

"_Mon cher _Mathieu, I-I don't know what else to say," Francis said. At this point, quiet tears were running down his cheeks. Now that the group was safe and secure at Base Camp, the reality of all that had happened since summit day came crashing down on him like a tidal wave. He'd been climbing with Alfred for three years and suddenly, that charismatic man was just…gone.

Francis heard a few muffled sobs from the other end of the line before Matthew answered in a quiet, thin voice. "How?" was all the Canadian managed to say.

"He was…" Francis' gaze drifted once again to Ivan, who was still listening intently to the Frenchman's conversation. Ivan's cheeks were moist with tears as well. Three pairs of eyes were damp in the wake of Alfred's death, two of them in Nepal and one in Quebec. "We all reached the summit of Everest," Francis finally continued. "Two of our climbers got stranded on the mountain above Camp Four. One of them was feeling very ill. Alfred went back up after them. To save them. And he never came back. Your cousin died a hero, Mattie."

"Of c-course he did," Matthew replied between sobs. "Thank you for calling me, Francis. I guess I have to call Al's parents now."

"Mathieu, I really am sorry," Francis added before hanging up. "Take care of yourself. Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Francis."

* * *

Ludwig was handed the radio next. He was eager to call Gilbert and let him know he was okay. He breathed a sigh of relief when he heard his brother's voice. "Gilbert," he said quietly.

"_Mein bruder!_" Gilbert shouted happily in a voice that was so loud Ludwig had to pull the radio away from his ear for a moment. Then, Gilbert's tone became a shade more somber. "Are you all right? I've heard…things…about Everest this year. Awful things. I was worried about my little brother."

"_Ja,_ Gil, I'm all right," Ludwig replied with a half-hearted little laugh. "But we lost our expedition guide, Alfred."

"Ludwig, that's terrible."

Ludwig decided this was as good a time as any to tell Gilbert about Feliciano. He liked being able to tell his brother pretty much anything, even if Gilbert would tease him about it for a little at first. "And I almost lost my…my boyfriend," he added a little sheepishly.

Gilbert laughed, his strange, signature "_kesesese_" laugh, and Ludwig found himself laughing right along with his brother. "Ah, Ludwig, you dog! You leave Berlin single and you come back taken? That takes skill. How long have you been there, like a month?"

"You have an incredible knack for finding a way to laugh at serious situations, you know that?" Ludwig admonished jokingly. He could picture Gilbert nodding with a self-satisfied smirk spreading across his face. "And if you care to know, we've been in Nepal almost _two_ months."

"Wait, who else died?" Gilbert asked suddenly, his voice full of panic. 'Tell me the name of _everyone_ who died on Everest this year. I want to know."

"Why?"

"I don't know, I just want to know."

Ludwig thought Gilbert's question was rather strange, but he was in no mood to argue. "Other than Alfred…" He paused to consider all the deaths he'd been told of on the mountain that year. As he started to list the names, he realized there were more than he'd ever thought there were. "Two New Zealanders named Rob Hall and Andrew Harris. Two Americans, Scott Fischer and Doug Hansen. Three climbers from India, and a girl from Japan. A Taiwanese climber who fell into a crevasse. A South African climber. And an Austrian named…" At this, Ludwig heard an audible gasp from Gilbert's end of the line. "…Reinhard Wlasich, but he died on the North Face of Everest."

Gilbert breathed a shaky sigh of relief. "Oh," he said quietly. "That…that's a lot."

"Yes, yes it is," Ludwig said. "Gil, I've got to go. I should let the others call home."

"Okay, _mein bruder._ Come home safely," Gilbert said with an uncharacteristic note of concern hanging in his voice. But then his tone brightened and he added quickly, "Don't get your ass into any more trouble on that damn mountain." With that, Ludwig hung up.

He carried the radio over to Feliciano, who was lying curled up in his sleeping bag, brown eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. "Feli, would you like to call your family and tell them you're all right?" he asked.

"Can you call…call my brother Lovino? I'm too tired, Luddy. Call Lovi…tell him…tell…" Feliciano wasn't even able to finish his sentence before he fell asleep.

Ludwig turned to Francis. "Do you have Feliciano's brother's phone number in some sort of emergency contact file?" he asked. "Feli asked me to call Lovino, but he fell asleep before he could give me the number. Poor tired thing."

"_Oui…_I think I have the papers here. Let me find them," Francis said. He fumbled around in his pack for a few moments, pulling out random objects in his search for the files. He seemed shaken and scatterbrained. Finally, he withdrew a stack of crumpled papers, fished through them, and read the number off to Ludwig, which he dialed as Francis spoke.

"Who is this?" Lovino said. He sounded irritated already. The German guessed Lovino had caller ID and did not recognize the strange country code.

"My name is Ludwig Beilschmidt. I'm on Mount Everest. I climb with your brother."

"Well, then why aren't I speaking with Feliciano? Where's my little brother? How is he?" Lovino snapped.

Ludwig had to collect himself in order to keep himself from snapping right back. Why was Lovino angry? What was his _problem_? Ludwig was trying to ease the Italian's mind by letting him know his brother was all right, and all he wanted to do was argue. He sighed and replied, "Feli's asleep. He's exhausted and not feeling very well, but he will return home safely."

Lovino muttered something indistinct in Italian before he said, "Hmm. All right then."

Feliciano's brother said nothing else. Ludwig didn't know whether to offer more details or to just hang up. Suddenly, he found himself blurting, "Ah, Lovino, your brother and I, we're kind of…together."

"Why in _hell_ is some mountaineering _potato bastard_ calling me to tell me he's dating my little brother? Look, I don't even know what kind of person you are. You could be some sort of creep. Some sort of…"

"Bastard?" Ludwig offered somewhat facetiously.

"Exactly," Lovino said. "How do I know you're treating _mio fratello _well?" The irritated edge dissolved from the Italian's voice as he added, "He's a sweet kid. I just don't want anybody hurting…"

"I'd die for your brother," Ludwig cut in softly. "I almost did, actually."

"Oh really? You expect me to believe that?"

Ludwig sighed again. There was really no reasoning with this Lovino. Clearly, he cared about Feliciano and wanted to look out for him, but he had instantly assumed the German was nothing but trouble. He understood where Lovino was coming from, but he couldn't help but feel that the Italian was overreacting a bit. "No, I can tell you won't believe me unless you hear it from Feliciano. Ask him to tell you the story. Maybe you'll believe your own brother." Frustrated, Ludwig hung up without another word.

* * *

Now that Ivan had stopped crying and collected himself, he took the radio from Ludwig and dialed his sister Katyusha's phone number. He wasn't in the mood to deal with his parents, especially his father, at the moment. Wait, when was he _ever_ in the mood to deal with his father? He waited eagerly as the phone rang. No one picked up. He heard his sister's voice on the answering machine, speaking cheerfully in Russian. Ivan sighed, hung up, and reluctantly dialed his parents' number. It was Sunday, so perhaps his sisters had gone to their parents' home for supper. This time, someone picked up. Ivan squeezed his eyes shut and prayed it wouldn't be Vladimir. Instead, his sister Natalia's voice was the one he heard. "_Privyet_?" she greeted.

"Natalia, it's Ivan," he said, hoping he could have a calm conversation with her for once.

"Vanya! Brother! We've been waiting to hear from you!" Natalia cried. Ivan's hopes were instantly shattered. "We've all been worried."

"You've _all_ been worried?" Ivan echoed. Somehow he couldn't imagine Vladimir worrying about his safety.

"Well…father keeps raging about how you're going to get yourself killed and it will be your own fault," she mused. "Oh, and how he thinks it's stupid to throw away so much money on something as trivial as mountain climbing."

Had Ivan not just lost Alfred, he would have giggled a little at his own foolishness in expecting even the slightest shade of sympathy or concern from his father. He nodded, though he realized Natalia couldn't see him nodding over the phone. "Why am I not surprised?" he said.

"Mmhmm. Listen, Vanya, hurry home! I can't wait to see you again. You will have to spend _lots_ of time with me to make up for the two months you were gone!" Ivan rolled his eyes. Somehow, returning home only to have Natalia cling to him and drag him around Moscow nonstop for a few weeks wasn't exactly what he was looking forward to, especially when all he wanted to do was flop down onto his own bed, sleep, and wallow in grief over the loss of Alfred for a while. "Here, let me give you to Katyusha," Natalia added. He was relieved when he heard his older sister's voice on the other end of the line.

* * *

Feliciano had been getting progressively stronger as the group descended, although the constant use of his ice axe wasn't doing much to help heal his injured wrist. But when he woke in the morning to descend from Base Camp to Lobuche, he felt sick again. Ludwig had to kneel beside him several times and shake him repeatedly until he finally clambered out of his sleeping bag, so tired he could barely move. His head, chest, and side all ached. He was drenched in sweat, even though he was cold and shivering. He dressed shakily and staggered out of the tent to meet Ludwig. He gripped the German's hand and used it for support as they made their way down to the small village at which they'd stayed for a few days on their way up before arriving on the mountain.

Even though they were now trekking at altitudes below 17,000 feet, which was the lowest elevation they'd experienced in almost a month and a half, Feliciano still felt as though there was something squeezing his lungs, constricting his breathing. He felt his breaths come in short and shallow. Each sharp inhalation provided him barely enough air to satisfy his body's needs. The sensation of being short of breath made Feliciano panicked and anxious, which only made him hyperventilate more. "Francis, why can't I breathe right?" he asked nervously.

"Oh, _cher_ Feliciano," Francis said with as much warmth as he could muster in spite of the dark cloud of grief and disaster that seemed to hover over the group and follow them wherever they went. "Ludwig and I are certain you've cracked a few ribs with that cough of yours. It's likely that one of those cracked ribs is stopping your lungs from expanding all the way. You should get yourself to a doctor as soon as you return home. The very next day, if possible."

All Feliciano could do was nod and continue to muddle through the painful, agonizing trek. As the weathered buildings of Lobuche came into view, the familiar sensation of lightheadedness returned to the Italian. It was strange and awful that feeling faint had become commonplace to Feliciano. His breaths shortened even more. All of a sudden, he started to lose grip on Ludwig's hand. The ground rushed up at him and his vision was engulfed in blackness.


	13. Chapter 13: Back in Kathmandu

As Feliciano awoke, bright white light flooded his vision. For a moment, he thought he was dead. He glanced around desperately in search of Alfred, hoping to see his fallen guide, to tell him Ivan missed him. But as the invading light dissipated slowly, what he saw was not the tanned face, honey-blonde hair, and ocean-blue eyes belonging to Alfred. Instead, Ludwig's face loomed before him, his image fuzzy around the edges. Feliciano rubbed his eyes and blinked. The German's face was contorted with worry. His hands were stuffed into his pockets. His eyes were a bit slick and moist. "Ludwig, Ludwig, _mio tesoro…_" the Italian pleaded softly. His own voice was thin, quivering, and hoarse; he barely recognized the sound of it.

Ludwig stepped forward, a sad smile cracking through his solemn expression. As Feliciano reached out to take the German's hands, he felt an uncomfortable pinch in his left wrist. His eyes moved slowly to the wrist, and he noticed that an IV snaked from one of its veins. The other wrist was wrapped in a brace. Ludwig took both the Italian's hands and held them gingerly, as though he were a fragile thing, a porcelain doll that would shatter at the slightest sudden movement. "I'm here. It's all right." The soft tone of the German accent was a comforting sound.

"Where am I?" Feliciano's eyes probed the unfamiliar room. He was enveloped in stiff white sheets, lying against stiff white pillows. Around him were four pristine white walls. Above him blazed a white light, vaguely reminiscent of the sun as it glinted off the snow as they ascended Everest. Ludwig sat down on the bed beside him.

"At the hospital in Kathmandu," Ludwig said.

"What happened? How did I get here? Weren't we at Lobuche? That's a week's trek from Kathmandu…I…"

"Shh," Ludwig said as he ran his thumbs gently over he backs of Feliciano's hands. "You passed out when we got to Lobuche. A helicopter came and took us to Kathmandu. We were worried about you and thought it was best to get you to a doctor right way. The doctors think perhaps the broken ribs are making you sick – they say perhaps pneumonia. But they say you will be all right."

Feliciano once again regarded the brace on his right arm. "And my wrist?"

"You've sprained it," Ludwig answered. "Technically, _Ivan_ sprained it, but that's not important."

Feliciano suddenly felt very cold. He began to shiver all over. He propped himself up against the pillows and nuzzled his face into Ludwig's chest, feeling the other man's warmth against his face, feeling the strong regular heartbeat like a metronome. For a moment, he was envious of Ludwig's strength and vitality. "Was I foolish?" he asked, his voice muffled against the fabric of the German's shirt. "Was I stupid to ever come here and climb Everest? I was, wasn't I?" The strange weight of guilt returned to the bottom of Feliciano's stomach. He felt as though he wanted to cry, but he was too exhausted to do so.

"I don't want to talk about that right now," Ludwig said. He held the body that was shaking from chills, exhaustion, and held-back sobs, as if the touch of his arms alone could make the Italian stop trembling.

Feliciano wrapped his arms around the German. The IV dug into his wrist as he did, but it was worth it to feel this sort of closeness to Ludwig. "That means you agree with me, doesn't it? I…I just…I'm sorry…" Usually, he wasn't the one who was at a loss for words, but at the moment, he couldn't think of anything else to say. He started whimpering softly into Ludwig's chest, but still the tears would not come.

"_Nein_, I…what I meant…" Feliciano could tell Ludwig was struggling with words, too. But instead of finishing, he simply continued to hold the Italian close. "Shh, _meine schatz…_" he murmured. He paused for a long moment. The silence was filled with the distant sounds of nurses shuffling from room to room and with the mechanical _beep_ of medical equipment. "Will you promise me one thing, though?"

"Of course."

"No matter what it is?"

"_Si._"

Trying to smile, Ludwig continued. "Before you return to the Himalayas, do some more prep climbs first. Some eighteeners. Some twenties. _Ja_?"

"I will do that. But I don't think I'll be coming back anytime soon," Feliciano said. They slipped back into silence. For a little while, the Italian felt comforted. But then, another thought crossed his mind, even worse than the ones that had preceded it. "Luddy, what happens to us now? Do I go back to Rome? Do you go back to Berlin? Is that it? Is that the end of it?" He couldn't imagine life without Ludwig anymore, even though up until two months ago, he hadn't even known the German. The thought of being alone again was a horrifying one.

"_Nein! Mein Gott,_ of course not. Feliciano, look at me." Almost reluctantly, the Italian pulled his face away from the warm comfort of Ludwig's chest and met the cool blue eyes with his brown ones. "When I decided to climb Everest, I never could have guessed I would meet someone I care about as much as I care about you. But I did. And I would be a fool to walk away from this." No words were sufficient to describe the way the weight lifted magically from Feliciano's shoulders, stomach, and heart as he heard Ludwig speak those words. The German added, "Come back to Berlin with me. You can rest and get better. Then we will figure out what we will do and where we will live. But all I know is…I want to be with you."

Feliciano smiled for the first time that day. "That's what I want, too."

"Now you should try to sleep, _meine schatz,"_ Ludwig said, and helped shift Feliciano so that he was lying down again.

Though he felt at peace, there was still one thing Feliciano had left unspoken. He had thought about it for a few days now and could not put it off any longer. He knew he had to. "I love you, Ludwig," he said, a little hesitantly. Feliciano spoke those three tiny words only when he truly meant it. Those words felt so much heavier on his tongue when there was not real meaning behind them. But now, after all that had happened in the last two months, they felt just right. He glanced up at Ludwig, wondering if the stern German would admonish him for rushing, for speaking those delicate words so soon, or worse – maybe he'd say nothing.

But he didn't have to worry long. "I love you too, Feliciano," Ludwig whispered. His words barely stirred the still, dead air. The Italian sighed happily, but soon he started to cough. The deep, dry convulsions sent pain shooting through his side. "Now get some rest. You must be very tired." The German leaned down to press a gentle kiss to Feliciano's forehead. That pair of lips felt so pleasantly warm.

"Are you going to leave?" Feliciano said.

"No, I'll be right here."

Feliciano closed his eyes at that promise. He had finally found his perfect protector. Ludwig would rescue him, no matter how foolish or thoughtless he had been – even if that rescue would come with heavy sighs, admonishing glances, or a few choice words for the Italian. And with Ludwig, he felt no desire to resist, as he did with his parents or with Lovino. He didn't have to prove anything to the German. He just felt…safe and loved. And that was perfect. With that – and with the knowledge that Ludwig would still be there the next time he opened his eyes – Feliciano could sleep again.

* * *

A day later, Feliciano was allowed to leave the hospital. The four remaining team members had all decided to stay in Kathmandu for a few extra days before flying home to allow the Italian to recover a bit more. When he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood shakily, it felt as though he had not used his legs in weeks. He started to slide to his knees before Ludwig caught him and wound an arm around his waist, being careful to avoid the sensitive spot where his ribs were broken. Leaning on the German for support, Feliciano made his way back to the hotel. Each step sent jolts of pain through his side. The walk took only twenty minutes, but by the time they had reached their room, Feliciano was thoroughly exhausted. He curled up on the bed and fell asleep right away.

The next few days were a haze. Feliciano slept most of the time. Francis gave him the medication the hospital had prescribed, along with painkillers and fever-reducers. Ludwig woke him every five or six hours to beg him to eat something, but he never wanted to. It was so odd. Usually, Feliciano was _always_ hungry, but now, all traces of his appetite had vanished. At night, Feliciano would awaken to a shifting mattress and rustling sheets as Ludwig climbed into bed next to him. Ludwig always tried to be quiet to avoid disturbing the Italian, but he didn't mind. He liked to be able to mumble a sleepy "I love you, Ludwig," before they both fell asleep. The German's arms would wrap around his cold, shivering body and he'd say, "I love you too, Feli." The Italian would smile and close his eyes again with Ludwig's breath warm on the back of his neck.

* * *

After having spent three additional days in Kathmandu, the team suddenly found themselves face to face with their last full day in Nepal's capital city. Tomorrow, they would all board planes and go their separate ways – except for Feliciano and Ludwig, of course, who were returning to Germany together. It all seemed surreal after having spent the past two months living together, getting to know one another, and relying on one another, that tomorrow it would all just be over. After waking up comfortably late in the morning, Francis and Ivan, who now roomed together in Alfred's absence, migrated over to Feliciano and Ludwig's room, as they usually did. They sat and watched television together without speaking. The only words that passed between the four were the occasional comments on whatever they could manage to find on the English-language channels. It was a silent act of shared grief. Though the five original expedition members had not met until they'd all arrived in Kathmandu in late March, which now seemed like an eternity ago, the challenging, exhausting, and often frightening experiences they'd shared had bonded them together. All of them acutely felt Alfred's loss. Ivan looked at the television, but wasn't really watching. His mind was still on Alfred. The charismatic blonde had come suddenly and unexpectedly into his life, and had fit there like the missing piece of a puzzle. Then, just as suddenly, that piece had been torn away, leaving a fresh void somewhere deep inside Ivan. He wasn't sure how long it would be before something or someone could fill that void again.

Ivan sat next to Francis on one of the two beds in the room. Feliciano and Ludwig were working on packing the insane mess of insulated clothing and climbing equipment back into their suitcases. Since they'd returned to altitudes close to sea level and were getting plenty of sleep, Feliciano seemed to be recovering much better. He was still weak, and he seemed to sleep almost constantly while at the hotel, but he was eating better, and some of the color had returned to his complexion. Ivan was glad for that. Once the Russian had gotten over the shock of the loss of Alfred, sudden and stinging like a slap to the face, he knew that of course Feliciano shouldn't be blamed for the American's death. Ivan glanced first at Feliciano and Ludwig, then back at Francis. "Since it's our last day together," he said quietly, "I think we should all go and get some gelato. For Alfred."

"Of course, Ivan," Francis replied. Feliciano and Ludwig nodded their agreement. Ivan could only vaguely recall Alfred discussing his desire for a big bowl of gelato over dinner the day after they'd first passed through the Khumbu Icefall. That day, along with all the team's first days on the mountain, seemed distant and surreal, as though they'd happened in a dream he'd had years ago. But it seemed it was the least they could do to honor the memory of their fallen American guide.

Within a couple of hours, the four of them had again dragged themselves wearily from the comfort of their hotel. It almost – _almost_ – felt as though they were again preparing to leave Kathmandu to trek again toward Lobuche, and ultimately, toward Everest. The two months they'd spent climbing that behemoth of a mountain had stretched on so endlessly that breathing thin air and whacking an axe into an ice face had become the normal way of life. It was bittersweet for Ivan to think that he was about to leave all of that behind. They found the Italian restaurant Alfred had taken them to just hours after their planes had touched down in Kathmandu, wandered inside, and found seats as close as possible to the table at which they'd sat two months ago. It felt as though the expedition had come full circle, ending just where it had started.

Ivan glanced absently through the list of gelato flavors, trying to guess at what Alfred would have ordered. He thought the American might have enjoyed the peanut butter fudge flavor, so he chose that. The waitress placed little cups of coffee in front of each of them, and Ivan lifted his cup to his lips as he peered out the window to his left. In the distance, Mount Everest loomed ominously, casting a shadow over the distant villages at her foot. A ribbon of snow blew triumphantly from her summit, like a flag of victory. The mountain seemed to be taunting them, mocking their pain. It was as though she fed off weakness and death, gaining a new surge of life when the humans who tried to conquer her suffered. It reminded Ivan of a sick kind of children's fairy tale in which the evil queen could only stay beautiful by sucking the youth from children.

He turned his eyes away from the window as his gelato was set in front of him. He pushed a few spoonfuls of it into his mouth. It was just as he'd imagined it: smooth, creamy, and absolutely exploding with flavor. But its taste was a bit rich, heavy, and sad for Ivan, as if the bowl holding the gelato held and embodied all the expedition's broken hopes. He made it about halfway through the gelato without speaking a word to the rest of the team before he halted with the spoon still in his hand, shut his eyes, and imagined that Alfred was sitting across from him. He'd reach out and brush the American's hand with his. Their eyes would lift from their bowls and lock upon each other. They'd lean across the table over their gelato until their lips met in the middle. Their tongues would seem to melt together as the taste of delicious chocolate that lingered in Alfred's mouth drove Ivan's senses into overload. His eyes snapped open, and that beautiful vision vanished from his imagination. Instead of gazing at Alfred, Ivan found his eyes resting upon Feliciano, who was picking at his gelato with an expression that said, _if I eat all this ice cream, I might get sick again._

Ivan sighed in disappointment. For a moment, his imagination had been so vivid that it had almost been as though Alfred really _was_ there again. He could almost _feel_ the touch of the American's hand, the warmth of his lips. As if to make sure he hadn't been dreaming, Ivan raised a few fingers to his lips and found them cold from the gelato. _Alfred is really gone, _he thought. He sniffled but could not stifle the sobs any longer. He stared into his gelato and let the tears run down his cheeks. A few dripped from his chin and moistened his ice cream. Without any thought given to the other members of the expedition – or to the other restaurant patrons, for that matter – Ivan sobbed uncontrollably, his shoulders shaking from the intensity of his sudden emotions. "Alfred…why did you have to go? I don't understand…I don't…" Ivan mumbled to himself in between sobs.

Ivan felt a hand fall upon his shoulder. He lifted slick eyes to Francis, who was patting his shoulder sympathetically. "Oh, _cher,_ I'm so sorry. It's not fair, is it? That great men like Alfred have to die?" Ivan shook his head sullenly. Feliciano gripped Ludwig's arm and stared up pleadingly into the German's eyes. Ivan felt bad for breaking down in front of the little Italian, who was already feeling guilty enough as it was. He could almost read the unspoken statement in Feliciano's sorrowful face: _It's my fault, so _I _should have died, not Alfred._ He could tell the Italian was fighting as hard as he could to keep himself from speaking those words. Ivan just wanted to pull him into a hug so they could cry together, but he was almost sure the other man wouldn't let him get that physically close ever again, after what had happened the morning after summit day.

Francis continued to try to comfort Ivan, but he just couldn't stop crying. Were his mind not clouded by exhaustion and indescribable sadness, he would have felt ashamed for having let his emotions get the better of him, but right now, the Russian couldn't bring himself to care. All four of them, having lost their appetite for the remainder of their gelato, paid, and exited the restaurant. They let their feet carry them down the now-familiar path back to the hotel. As had become customary, they moved in silence. Perhaps it was because no words were sufficient to describe the mix of emotions they all felt since having summited: a mixture of relief, guilt, victory, defeat, achievement, and sorrow all at once. Words seemed to be unnecessary and trivial at this point. The only sounds any of them made were the sobs that fell from Ivan's lips. He reached up to brush tears away from his reddened face with the back of his hand.

When they returned to the hotel, Feliciano and Ludwig returned to their room, while Francis and Ivan retreated to their own room. Ivan sank down into the sheets of his bed, hugged a pillow to his chest, and prayed that sleep would come quickly so that the gloom of the day would no longer torment him. It was still afternoon, but that gave him just enough time to rest a little before dinner. But instead of sleeping, Ivan found himself sniffling into the pillow, its fabric becoming damp with tears. Francis sat on the bed beside him and ran a hand along his back. Still, he didn't say a single word. Still, words seemed useless and insufficient. What could Francis say to him that could possibly make him feel better? Ivan was grateful for the comforting silence of his new friend. A few rooms down the hall, Ivan's other two newest friends were probably cuddling, wrapped in the security of each other's arms. It was strange how, when ice climbers who were once complete strangers experienced adversity together, they'd quickly become friends. They would be at ease together as if they'd known one another for years. It was the first time in a long time that Ivan had felt like he was truly a part of a group, rather than the outsider who was allowed to watch but not to participate. As tragic as the Everest experience had been for Ivan, as awful as Alfred's death was, he found the smallest shade of hope in the way Francis was comforting him, in the way the four of them stayed together even after they'd finally made their way down that vengeful mountain. But it wasn't enough to make Ivan's peaceful smile return to his lips. It seemed that his smile had vanished when Alfred had.

* * *

**How in the world did I finish this chapter so quickly? I wrote about half of it while feeling incredibly sleep-deprived.**

**As always, thanks for reading, and please review!**

**Up next: THE LAST CHAPTER, WOOT! Everyone returns home. I can't believe this fic is almost over. I mean, really. Okay, I'll stop rambling now. **


	14. Chapter 14: Berlin

**So…I lied. There's going to be one more chapter after this one. The ending was getting too long, so I decided to break it up into two chapters rather than one big honking chapter. And I apologize for the excessive amount of dialogue at the end of the chapter. **

**Also, another pairing may or may not show up at the end of this chapter. If you don't ship it…sorry. **

* * *

The next morning, the four of them awoke and piled into a shuttle van that would take them to the airport. When they'd arrived in Kathmandu, they'd walked all the way to the hotel, which had taken them half an hour. But now, after having spent the last two months hiking or climbing for six to twelve hours a day, the prospect of another long walk was exhausting in and of itself. The van pulled away from the hotel. Ludwig found Feliciano's hand in the darkness and held it, sighing happily as the Italian's fingers intertwined with his. He could barely see the silhouette of Feliciano's face, illuminated by the lights of the city and the faint glimmer of the moon above, and when he leaned forward for a kiss, his lips found the corner of the other man's mouth rather than the center. Feliciano giggled, grabbed the collar of Ludwig's shirt, pulled him in close, and kissed him fully on the lips. The kiss tasted delightfully of mediocre hotel coffee and some sort of faint, lingering sweetness that Ludwig couldn't quite put his finger on.

In ten minutes, the van pulled up at the curb of the airport. The four shuffled out and unloaded their suitcases from the trunk before they bid the driver goodbye and stepped inside the airport's sliding doors. They made their way monotonously through check-in and security, walking through a haze of early-morning sleepiness as they fumbled again and again for passports, tickets, and identification. After they moved through security, retrieved their backpacks, and pulled their shoes back on, they halted and stared at one another. Now had come the time when they'd have to separate and find their own terminals, where they'd wait for their flights home. "I guess this is goodbye, _mes chers_," Francis said. With that singular statement, the Frenchman had finalized the reality of their departure from Nepal, and from one another. "I'm glad to have climbed with all of you," he added.

"You as well, Francis," Ludwig said with a smile. He offered Francis his outstretched hand. The other man took it and shook it firmly for a brief moment before he wrapped his arms around Ludwig and pulled him into a big hug. At first, the German stiffened in the tight embrace. He wasn't very used to physical affection like this, though Feliciano was starting to break him of his reluctance. But then he relaxed and patted Francis a few times on the back before the Frenchman released him and hugged Feliciano next.

"Bye, Francis!" Feliciano chirped, sounding more awake and energized than he had in weeks.

"Bye, Feliciano! Rest up, get better, and stay out of trouble!" Francis replied. Feliciano nodded and smiled.

Next, Francis and Ivan hugged. "Hey, don't _I_ get a hug, too?" Feliciano said jokingly to Ludwig.

Ludwig shook his head and chuckled. "_Meine liebe,_ you are coming home with me! It's not as though we are leaving each other!" he said. But even as he spoke those words, his arms encircled the Italian's waist and pulled him in close until their bodies brushed. For a moment, they lost themselves in the embrace as Ludwig gazed into Feliciano's brown eyes, which were once again bright and dancing with energy. His smile seemed to reach all the way up to that beautiful pair of eyes in spite of the exhaustion and weakness that still plagued him. The German felt his lips curve upward at the sight of that familiar warm smile. Behind them, Francis cleared his throat rather dramatically. "Oh, sorry," Ludwig said and pulled away reluctantly, his cheeks growing hot and red.

"Don't apologize! You two are so cute together!" Francis remarked, grinning. Ludwig glanced at Ivan, who was trying his best to smile, but the faint upward curve of his lips beneath his scarf seemed just as far from genuine as Roderich's manufactured smile when Elizaveta had thrown her arms around him.

Ludwig shook Ivan's hand. "Take care of yourself, Ivan," he said. Ivan nodded and offered no other response.

Ivan and Feliciano found themselves staring at each other. Feliciano opened his mouth as if to speak, but couldn't seem to find sufficient words to say to Ivan. He lowered his head guiltily and stared at his shoes. The Russian, apparently sensing the Italian's sadness, gave him a stiff, awkward hug. "I am truly sorry, Ivan," Feliciano said. The joy had evaporated from his voice without a trace, as water evaporates from hot blacktop on a scorching day outside.

"Feliciano, don't be sorry," Ivan said, with an uncharacteristic touch of sympathy. "It was not your fault, _da_? I…I just overreacted. I am the one who should be sorry."

At that point, Ludwig realized they had all said their goodbyes, which meant it was time for the four to go their separate ways. Despite how difficult it was for the German to get close to others, he felt as though he had come to trust the mountaineers he'd shared his Everest experience with. For the most part, he'd enjoyed spending time with them. This moment, just like every moment since the team had summited, was so bittersweet. Feliciano peered at Ludwig with a sorrowful expression before his eyes moved to the others. "Maybe we'll all see each other again someday," the Italian said. A tiny smile crossed his lips. Ludwig patted his new lover on the shoulder. That was the kind of attitude that had made him fall in love with Feliciano: hopeful to the point of being almost naïve. He had lost that sense of optimism for a while after he fell ill, but now it seemed as though Feliciano was slowly returning to his usual self.

"_Oui,_ I hope so," Francis replied. "And hopefully under happier circumstances than this."

Clutching their boarding passes in their hands, all four turned and started to walk toward their terminals. "_Ciao!_" Feliciano called over his shoulder, waving at Francis and Ivan as they separated from him and Ludwig.

"_Au revoir!"_ Francis replied as he waved back at them.

"_Auf wiedersehen,_" Ludwig said, jumping in on the trend. Apparently, Feliciano had prompted everyone to offer their final parting words in their native language.

Ivan tried again to smile as he said, "_Do svidaniya_" in a quiet voice. He raised his hand as if to say goodbye, but did not wave it. With that, he turned on his heel, rounded a corner, and disappeared from sight. Francis' image grew small as he continued in the opposite direction down the hallway directly behind them.

Ludwig raised the boarding pass in his hand to eye level and studied it. "All right, what have we got here? Looks like Terminal C-29's this way," he said, and pointed down the hallway in front of him, which was in the opposite direction of Francis' terminal. He shifted his backpack on his shoulders and started off in the direction he had pointed.

Feliciano followed him. "I'm going to miss them, Luddy," he said.

"Me too," Ludwig said. He reached down and gripped Feliciano's hand in his, giving it a comforting little squeeze. They slipped into silence as they walked through the bustling airport, scanning the signs above the terminals for the one they were looking for. The English letters were to the right of the strange, loopy Nepali characters on the signs. Ludwig could speak Nepali fairly well, but writing it was another question. He didn't trust himself enough to rely on his skills in the other language, so he read the English text instead. Within a minute or two, they found C-29, headed into the little alcove, dropped their backpacks on the ground, and settled into a pair of seats.

Ludwig lifted his head and glanced around the airport. Tanned and rugged locals shuffled back and forth, speaking Nepali and a variety of local dialects, some of which the German didn't recognize. Pale foreigners threaded their way in between. A few looked lost and nervous. Ludwig guessed many of them were climbers who were departing after ascents of Everest, Lhotse, Cho Oyu, and other surrounding peaks. He turned his blue eyes to the screen at the front of the terminal, next to the door that would eventually open to allow them entrance onto the plane. The first line of glowing red letters read, _Kathmandu/New Delhi, 7:25 a.m. _Below that, there were two additional lines that read _Service to Berlin_ and _Vienna_. Ludwig shut his eyes for a brief moment to take that in. _Berlin. Home_. He hadn't really thought of home for the entire expedition – he'd been too focused on the task at hand. The only time his thoughts had wandered back to Berlin was when he'd called Gilbert from Base Camp.

"Hello, Ludwig, Feliciano."

A vaguely familiar voice interrupted Ludwig's reverie. He glanced up and found his blue eyes staring into purple ones. "Oh, hello, Roderich," he greeted. "Are you on our flight, then?"

"_Ja,_" the Austrian replied as he settled down into the seat next to Feliciano. "I have a two-hour layover in Berlin before I fly back to Vienna. How are you feeling, Feliciano? Better, I hope?"

"_Si_, much better!" Feliciano replied cheerfully. "I mean, my side still hurts sometimes, but they said it would take a while for my cracked ribs to heal. And they said they can't really do anything for them. Isn't that weird? They can't do anything for cracked ribs?"

Roderich shook his head and chuckled wryly. It had only taken four days at sea level, some prescription medication, and plenty of rest to make Feliciano bounce back to his happy, chatty self, almost as though nothing had happened to him at all. That was, of course, with the exception of a few moments of lingering guilt over Alfred's death. "I suppose," the Austrian said. "Well, I'm glad you're feeling better."

At that moment, the PA system crackled to life. A woman said something cheerfully in Nepali. There was a brief pause, and then she spoke in English. "Flight 112, service to New Delhi and Berlin, now boarding all first-class passengers."

As he stood and shouldered his backpack, Roderich said, "That's me. Have a good flight, you two." He waved over his shoulder as he approached the counter and handed his boarding pass and passport to an airport employee.

In a few minutes, Feliciano and Ludwig's row was called. When they'd changed their flight reservations, somehow they'd managed to purchase two seats together. They shrugged on their backpacks and boarded the plane. As they walked down the aisles and settled into their seats, Ludwig wished they would have paid the extra money to sit in first class. After a grueling trek up the mountain, sinking into roomy leather seats in a section of the airplane that was quiet and sectioned off from the other seats sounded absolutely divine. The German envied Roderich, who was probably savoring the extra legroom right about now. They waited for around half an hour before the engine roared to life and the airline safety movie flickered onto the screens in front of them. Then, the jet started to crawl forward into position behind another plane. Feliciano, who had the window seat, nearly pressed his face to the glass as he watched the plane in front of them rocket into the air. The engine of their plane started to whir faster. It resumed its motion, slowly at first, and then its speed increased rapidly. The noise from the back of the plane now resonated in Ludwig's ears. Finally, the wheels of the plane left the runway, and they were airborne.

Ludwig placed a hand on Feliciano's shoulder and leaned in behind him so he could peer out the window, as well. As the plane climbed into the sky, the city of Kathmandu shrank beneath them. Cars were reduced to the size of toys, then to mere dots darting along the narrow ribbon of highway. The peaks of the Himalayas came into view out their window. There was Lhotse to one side, Cho Oyu to another, and between them, Everest, the mountain they had just left. Today she was still and silent. No snow blew from her peak. "Say goodbye to Everest, Feli," Ludwig said quietly before he pressed his lips to the back of Feliciano's neck. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the Nepalese passenger seated to his left giving them a weird and slightly reprimanding look. He wasn't sure what the Nepalese people thought of homosexuality, but from the narrowed eyes and angry expression of this man, he guessed they weren't exactly fans. Turning his eyes back to Feliciano, he tried to ignore the man. It didn't matter what some stranger thought. He loved Feliciano, and that was the end of it.

"Bye, Everest," Feliciano said. He waved to the mountain in the distance. There was a thread of anger and blame in the Italian's voice as he spoke those words.

Ludwig understood. The mountain had taken Feliciano's dreams of conquering the highest mountain in the world and made them into something dark and painful. But he didn't want Feliciano to entirely regret the Everest experience. "Hey, _meine liebe,_ look at me." Feliciano turned his eyes toward Ludwig. "We summited. We made it. We got back down alive. And you're feeling better. That's something to be proud of, isn't it?"

"I…guess," Feliciano replied, a little hesitantly. "It just…didn't turn out how I hoped it would. I still wonder if I made a mistake in coming here in the first place."

"I know it wasn't exactly what you hoped for. But Everest is the reason we met each other. Isn't that worth something?" Ludwig said. The way he felt about Feliciano continued to surprise him every day. He usually wasn't the most gentle and comforting of men, but something inside him changed whenever he spoke to the little Italian, something he had stopped trying to understand or explain at this point. All he could do was accept it.

"Of course it is, Luddy," Feliciano said as he shifted to rest his head on the German's shoulder. "Of course it's worth something."

In return, Ludwig wrapped an arm around Feliciano's waist. "I love you, Feliciano," he whispered into the Italian's ear.

"I love you too, Ludwig."

If he hadn't known it before, at that moment, Ludwig could no longer deny that, as disastrous as the expedition had been, he was glad it happened. Through all the mishaps, all the terrifying turns of events, he was glad, because it had led him to Feliciano. The Italian started to doze off with his head on Ludwig's shoulder. The plane banked to the left, turning away from the mountains that rose in the distance. Everest disappeared from view. Ludwig sighed happily and let his eyes slide shut, as well.

* * *

The sounds of the pilot's announcement, and then the plane as it roared into the airport, woke Ludwig and Feliciano from their peaceful nap. When they'd touched down safely, they staggered sleepily off the aircraft and prepared to change planes in New Delhi, India. Feliciano grabbed Ludwig's arm, dragged him toward Roderich, and asked the Austrian if he'd eat lunch with the two of them. Roderich seemed a little reluctant to accept the offer, but when he saw Feliciano's bright, eager face, it was as though he couldn't say no. Ludwig was no stranger to that feeling. How could anyone bear to disappoint someone as kind-hearted as Feliciano? The entire time the three of them munched on greasy French fries and hamburgers from McDonalds (they didn't trust the other airport food in New Delhi), Roderich seemed awkward and nervous. His gaze darted all around the airport, but it always flicked back to Ludwig, pausing for a moment to study the German's face in a way that was vaguely nostalgic. Ludwig thought he sensed a trace of pain and guilt in the Austrian's face, but he couldn't figure out why. Most likely, he was imagining things again. Most likely, Roderich was just worn out from having summited Everest.

This time, the plane would not stop for a second layover before continuing to Berlin. It would be sixteen hours until they arrived in Ludwig's home city. When he and Feliciano settled back into their seats on the plane, they leaned together and watched two of the in-flight movies. After that, Feliciano once again fell asleep on Ludwig's shoulder, but the German could not find sleep again. He reached into his backpack, pulled out a book that had remained untouched since the flight to Nepal, and started reading. He finished the book with another four hours of the flight to go. Next to him, Feliciano stirred, woke up, and stretched his arms, so the two of them talked about their interests and their tastes in things like music and movies. They shared stories from their childhoods, as well as a few climbing stories. Time seemed to slip away in the blink of an eye as he talked with the Italian and got to know him better. In the whirlwind of activity and emotion that had been their ascent of Everest, they had kind of skipped that part of their relationship. They talked for the entire remainder of the flight, so they were well on their way to making up for it. Ludwig barely even noticed as those four hours just flew by. Soon, he heard the pilot asking them to put away all electronic devices and to put trays in an upright position to prepare to land in Berlin. Turbulence shook the plane. Ludwig and Feliciano peered out the window and saw that the night sky was gray and clouded. Wind whipped in the air, and rain beat against the windows and the wings of the airplane. In the distance, a flash of lightning illuminated the sky. Ludwig was surprised the pilot decided to land rather than circle the airport to wait for the weather to clear. Well, they were probably so close that it didn't really make much of a difference. They were already in the middle of the storm.

The landing was rough and bouncy. Feliciano reached over and gripped Ludwig's arm as the plane's wheels pounded the runway repeatedly. He looked a little pale and panicked, as though he were about to lose his lunch. Ludwig prayed that wouldn't happen. He was so close that he wouldn't have the chance to move. The Italian's appetite still wasn't quite back to normal, so the big, greasy lunch they'd had at McDonalds probably wasn't agreeing with his stomach, which had grown accustomed to smaller meals and energy bars. When the plane's motion ground to a halt and the captain turned off the "fasten seatbelts" sign, Ludwig sighed in relief. The two shuffled eagerly out of the plane. As they made their way monotonously through immigration and customs, they could see Roderich just ahead of them. He still had to endure two hours in the airport and an hour on the plane before he'd arrive in Vienna, Austria. Ludwig didn't envy him any longer.

But as they finally got through immigration, a voice over the PA barked in crisp German that all flights were cancelled for the evening due to weather. Indeed, conditions outside had worsened. Torrential downpour drenched the world. Every few seconds, there was a resounding clap of thunder, followed by a flash of lightning. Ludwig could see Roderich standing in front of a service desk, waving his arms angrily. He was presumably arguing with the airline employee. _He still has to fly back to Vienna,_ Ludwig reminded himself. But now, Roderich couldn't go anywhere until tomorrow. That was awful. He was only a few hours from sleeping in the comfort of his own bed, only to have weather rip that chance away from him. It seemed as though the terrible weather conditions had followed them back from Nepal. On Everest, they'd been hit with snowstorms. Back in Berlin, it was rain that tormented them.

The soft sounds of falling rain gave way to a series of loud _pings_ and _pops_. Ludwig glanced out the rain-soaked window to see hail falling from the sky. Roderich stormed away from the service desk and up to Feliciano and Ludwig. Looking incredibly annoyed, he said, "They can't get me a flight out of Berlin until one in the afternoon tomorrow! One! Can you believe that? What are they going to do for my trouble? Upgrade me to first class? Well, they can't! I'm already there!" He rolled his eyes and huffed loudly. "I'm glad _you two_ are already home. I suppose I should let you get your bags now and see about this hotel they want to put me in."

Against his better judgment, Ludwig found himself replying, "A hotel, Roderich? _Nein!_ Don't even think of it! Come stay at my house for the night. It'll be less of a hassle. I will drive you to the airport myself tomorrow."

"I wouldn't want to be any trouble…" Roderich started to say. Once again, he looked nervous and unsteady.

"You won't be any trouble!" Ludwig interrupted. "Come on. I insist. You'll just have to wait for us while we get our suitcases." He wasn't sure why he wanted so badly to help Roderich. Perhaps it was because he'd taken on the role of a protector while on Everest, and that instinct had stayed with him even after he'd descended. Or perhaps it was because he still felt guilty for having been rude to the Austrian guide when they'd first met at Base Camp.

"I can make you breakfast tomorrow morning!" Feliciano chirped, grinning. "That way, you won't have to eat crappy hotel food. I can make us all breakfast! I'm a good cook!"

Ludwig leaned forward and kissed Feliciano on the cheek. "I bet you are, _meine liebe!_" he said. "So, what do you say, Roderich?"

"Oh, all right," the Austrian conceded. He followed Feliciano and Ludwig to the baggage claim, where they collected their suitcases. They trudged out into the storm. Instantly, bits of hail the size of large coins, mixed with ice-cold rain, assaulted them. None of them had rain jackets or umbrellas. Ludwig put his head down and walked toward the parking garage in an attempt to locate his car. Unfortunately, his vehicle was black in color and rather unpretentious, so it didn't stand out among the others. Initially, he led the other two to the wrong floor and wandered around for about five minutes before he realized his car was nowhere to be found. He went up one floor and finally found his car, parked all by itself in an empty row of parking spaces. It was late, so most of the flights that day had arrived hours ago. With fingers shaking from the frigid rain, Ludwig found his keys and unlocked the car.

Feliciano slid into the passenger seat next to Ludwig, while Roderich sat in the back. As he pulled out of the parking garage and made his way onto the main road, it finally sank in that, in just twenty minutes, Ludwig would be home. He thought of his brother, who would probably stay up to wait for his return. He thought of his two German shepherds, who had been left in Gilbert's care for nearly two months. He thought of how good it would feel to rest his head on his own pillow, to flop down onto a real mattress rather than a lightweight camping mat, and to cuddle with Feliciano until they both fell asleep to the relaxing sounds of rain pattering outside.

As Ludwig turned the car onto the street where he lived, Roderich said, out of the blue, "Ludwig, I broke up with Elizaveta. I just couldn't do it anymore."

"Okay, but why are you telling _me_ this?" Ludwig responded. The Austrian still confused him at times. He said things that just didn't make sense, and Ludwig did his best to ignore those little oddities.

Roderich covered his face with his hand. "You _still _haven't figured it out? I used to…"

"We're here!" Ludwig announced as he pulled into the driveway. Whatever conversation it was that Roderich wanted to have with him, they'd have plenty of time for it before the Austrian had to return to the airport tomorrow. Right now, he just wanted to unload their luggage, see Gilbert, and get some rest.

The three of them got out of the car and yanked suitcases and backpacks out of the trunk. As they made their way up the driveway, Roderich paused beside Gilbert's car and stared at it curiously as though it were an alien spaceship, even as the rain continued to drench him. Roderich placed a hand gingerly and tentatively on the hood of that car and then withdrew it as if he'd accidentally touched a hot stovetop. When the Austrian turned to follow them, Ludwig heard him mumble something that sounded like, "Maybe Ludwig just has two cars."

Ludwig found that the front door was already unlocked. He sighed as he turned the knob and waved the other two inside his home. Gilbert had a habit of forgetting to lock the door. He didn't seem to remember – or care – that anyone could just walk right in whenever they wanted. The home was silent as they entered. Perhaps Gilbert had dozed off upstairs. "Ah, Ludwig, where's the restroom?" Roderich said.

"Down that hallway, first door on the left," Ludwig said, pointing down the hall. Roderich let his backpack slip off his shoulder and drop to the ground before he turned and headed in the direction Ludwig had indicated. The German turned to Feliciano. "So…this is my house," he said. "It's nothing special, really."

"It's nice!" Feliciano remarked. "And so…clean! My place is _never_ this clean. I try to clean it, but then it just gets messy again."

Ludwig heard the familiar _clack_ of nails on the wood floor of the entryway. Both his dogs had gotten up from their beds upstairs and trotted down the steps to him and Feliciano. He kneeled and reached out to pat both dogs on the head. The dogs' tails wagged energetically as he scratched behind their ears. One of the dogs' tongues poked out of its mouth and brushed Ludwig's hand. The animals were usually very calm and didn't really like to lick, but then again, their master _had _been gone for a long time.

"Hey, pups! Hey!" Feliciano exclaimed.

"Careful, Feli," Ludwig said. "They don't usually take well to strang-"

Ludwig didn't even get to finish his warning. Feliciano had bent next to him, and he gently ruffled the dogs' fur with his fingertips. The dogs' tails continued to wag. One even licked Feliciano's arm. That was…odd. While the dogs never bit, they'd often growl and act aloof when strange people arrived in the house. It was as if they knew the Italian was special, somehow.

As Ludwig stood, he did his best to brush dog fur off his black fleece jacket. "Feli, I'm going to go and see if Gilbert's awake. You stay here for a minute with the dogs," he said. Feliciano nodded. The German took the Italian's suitcase, dragged it up the stairs, and set it down in his room. He wandered into Gilbert's room next and softly pushed the door open. He found his pale-haired brother sleeping soundly, arms and legs spread out in every direction. He wondered if Gilbert still had the tendency to kick people when he slept. Then, he had to cover his mouth to keep himself from giggling. Sleepy from a long flight, Ludwig found that the thoughts going through his head were starting to make less and less sense.

He made his way over to the side of the bed and nudged Gilbert's arm. "Gil. Hey. Wake up." Normally, he would have just let his brother sleep, but it felt like it had been forever since they'd last seen each other. Waiting until tomorrow no longer seemed like an option.

"Hmm? Who's 'ere?" Gilbert mumbled sleepily as he rolled over away from Ludwig.

"It's me. It's Ludwig. We're back."

Gilbert's eyes snapped open. He twisted his head around to study Ludwig with narrowed red eyes. "_Mein bruder!_" he said as a lopsided grin crept onto his face. He rolled over again, pushed the sheets away, and leapt out of bed. He threw his arms around Ludwig with such force that the younger brother staggered a few steps backward and let out a little grunt as the air was knocked out of him.

Ludwig returned the embrace and patted his brother firmly on the back. "Hey, Gil, why don't we go downstairs so you can meet Feliciano?" Ludwig said. "He's the one I told you about. You said it was all right if he stayed-"

"Yeah, let's go!" Gilbert replied. He ran a hand through his messy hair and followed Ludwig back down the stairs.

They found that Feliciano was still crouched on the ground, fawning over Ludwig's dogs. "Feli, this is my brother Gilbert," Ludwig said. "Gilbert, Feliciano."

Feliciano turned and glanced up at Gilbert. "Oh, hi!" he said. He straightened and took Gilbert's outstretched hand. "Great to meet you, Gilbert!"

"You too, Feliciano. It's about time my brother got some! _Kesesese!_" Gilbert threw his head back and laughed. That strange laugh, that blunt remark meant Ludwig was home again.

"Who said anything about that?" Ludwig snapped.

Giggling, Feliciano said, "Oh, Luddy, you're getting all red! Don't worry, Gilbert. He's _getting some_. And he can get some more after we get some rest!"

"I think I like him," Gilbert announced. "Hey, why are there three backpacks? _Mein bruder,_ did you really bring back _that _many souvenirs?" he commented teasingly.

"Oh, I-I hope it's all right if someone else stays here tonight," Ludwig said quickly. He realized Gilbert didn't know Roderich would be here as well. "One of my fellow climbers was supposed to fly home after a layover in Berlin, but his flight got cancelled. I invited him here. He's in the restroom."

"Oh, of course that's okay!" Gilbert said. "Why wouldn't it-"

"What in _hell_ are _you_ doing here?"

Roderich's voice, more gruff and coarse than Ludwig had ever heard it, interrupted Gilbert. He wore a scowl as he emerged from the restroom, aiming shocked and angered purple eyes at Ludwig's older brother.

"I _live_ here, Priss," Gilbert shot back. "The better question is, what are _you_ doing here?" Gilbert glanced back at his brother. His red eyes searched Ludwig's blue ones. "Wait, _this_ is your climbing buddy?"

Ludwig was absolutely stunned. What was going on here? He fumbled to find the right words to say. "_J-ja_…why? Is…is that a problem or something? Do you two…know each other?"

"Unfortunately," Gilbert said. Then, he stepped forward and slapped Roderich across the face.

The Austrian gasped in shock and rubbed his reddening cheek with the flattened palm of his hand. "What was that for, idiot?"

"If you don't know what that was for, you've got to be fucking dense," Gilbert spat. "You left. You…you fucking _left_." His voice started to break at the end of his sentence. He looked as though he were about to cry. Ludwig had honestly never seen Gilbert react to anything quite this way. It was at that moment that he realized what was unfolding around him. Gilbert and Roderich had been dating at one point. He didn't know how long ago – for whatever reason, Gilbert hadn't told him about Roderich. The Austrian had tried to tell Ludwig on more than one occasion that Gilbert was his ex, but Ludwig had cut him off every single time. He felt awful that he'd been so ignorant. Why hadn't he figured it out by now?

"I know I did," Roderich said, his voice suddenly becoming somber and almost rueful. "And I'm very sorry. I've missed you, Gilbert."

"I missed you too – wait," Gilbert started to reply eagerly, but he cut himself off. "How am I supposed to believe you? How am I supposed to trust you?"

Roderich sighed heavily. "I don't know, Gilbert. It's going to be hard. You don't have any proof. You just have to believe what I'm telling you. I didn't realize how much I cared until after you were gone. I thought about you…" The Austrian paused. His expression was pained. Ludwig could tell it was hard for the brunet to say these things to Gilbert. He just didn't know what to do. All he could do was watch as the scene played out between his older brother and the man he'd met at Base Camp. Feliciano had gone back to petting the dogs. He looked up at the two arguing men with a stunned expression, even as his hands moved over the shepherds' fur. "…I thought about you a lot," Roderich finished.

"You did?" Gilbert said.

"Yes, I did. I really…_Mein Gott, _I can't believe I'm about to tell you this. I may or may not have…said your name once or twice…while I was in bed with Elizaveta…instead of hers…" Roderich trailed off awkwardly. A deep crimson hue spread across his cheeks and seemed to reach all the way to his ears and to the corners of his nose. He lowered his eyes and stared at his shoes.

Gilbert started to laugh – the most full-bodied, satisfied, self-confident laugh Ludwig had ever heard. And that was saying something, considering he'd lived with his brother for the majority of his life. "You did?" he said again. "Oh, Roddy…"

"Gil, stop it, this is serious!" Roderich barked. "I'm trying to be serious with you! That is not an easy thing to admit."

"Okay, okay, you're right," Gilbert chuckled. He took a deep breath and calmed himself down. "Please continue."

"The point is, I want you back, Gilbert," Roderich said plaintively.

"I want you back too, Roderich," Gilbert said in a soft, conciliatory tone of voice. Then, he added quickly and roughly, "But it's not going to be easy. You're going to have to prove to me that I should trust you again."

Roderich took Gilbert's face in his hands. Ludwig felt his own breath catch in his throat. "I know. Let's start right now." The Austrian closed the distance between him and Gilbert until their lips met. At first, Gilbert's hands flattened against Roderich's chest, as if he were going to push the other man away. Instead, Ludwig watched his brother give in, press back almost helplessly into the kiss, and let his arms drape around Roderich's neck. They stayed that way for a long moment before they both pulled away breathlessly at almost the same moment and stared at each other, wide-eyed, as if their mouths had moved independently of their brains. "I don't think I'm going back to Austria tomorrow," Roderich mused happily as he gazed into Gilbert's bright crimson eyes.

Gilbert's mood shifted almost instantly. "So! I need to hear Everest stories from you three," he announced brightly.

"Wait!" Ludwig interrupted. "I think we deserve an explanation." He jerked his head at Feliciano, who was still stroking the dogs' fur, looking rather lost and confused. "I would just love to know how you two met."

"Let's sit down and I will tell you the story," Roderich said firmly, shooting Gilbert an admonishing glance.

"Hey, why do _you_ get to tell it, Specs?" Gilbert protested.

"Because you will make things up," Roderich said. The four of them settled into the couches in the adjoining room. Ludwig draped an arm around Feliciano's shoulders as the Italian curled up against him. Gilbert wrapped an arm tightly around Roderich's waist and pulled him in close. "All right, Ludwig," the Austrian began. "Your brother came to me to learn ice-climbing. He saw his little brother doing it and he wanted to do it, too. Isn't that cute? But he didn't want you to find out because he thought you'd think he was copying you or something. When he came for his first lesson, he was so nervous and flustered! It was adorable."

Ludwig couldn't help but laugh as Gilbert's cheeks flushed. "I was _not_ flustered!" he shot back.

"You people are funny," Feliciano mumbled sleepily. Ludwig had the feeling that Feliciano would end up falling asleep on the couch – and that he'd end up carrying the Italian up to bed. In a few moments, Ludwig got up and made tea for the four of them. Despite their weariness, they talked for hours, sharing stories about ice climbing and relationships, punctuated by laughter and protests. Just as Ludwig had predicted, Feliciano nodded off on his shoulder at some point after the German had started telling Gilbert about the terrifying summit day his group had encountered. The horror of that day – of that expedition – was over. Ludwig suddenly felt that he had become part of a family – an rather abnormal one, but a family nonetheless.

* * *

**As always, thanks for reading, and reviews are love :)**

**Up next: Ivan returns home to Russia – last chapter, for real this time! I promise.**


	15. Chapter 15: Moscow

**There will be one additional "chapter," but it won't actually be part of the story. It will be some ending author's notes from me. I don't want to put any notes on the end of this chapter because I think it will ruin the effect. Also, how in heck did I finish this freaking chapter so fast? I think I was excited 'cause it's the last one. So, without any further ado, the last chapter of the fanfic…for real this time! Enjoy!**

* * *

Ivan's flight didn't leave until 8:15 a.m., almost an hour after Feliciano and Ludwig's flight had departed. Since he left his food untouched this morning at the hotel, Ivan tried again to eat breakfast at the airport, but couldn't. It was almost remarkable how sadness could make his appetite vanish without a trace. He picked absently at his food, thoughts drifting in and out of his head in an endless loop of guilt and melancholy. Should he have run out into the storm after Alfred on summit day? Should he have clung to the American's waist as hard as he possibly could and stopped him from going after Feliciano and Ludwig? If he had, would Alfred be sitting next to him right now? After all, it was not Feliciano's fault that he'd fallen ill in the Death Zone. It had been _Ivan_ who had the power to influence Alfred's decisions. Yet he'd watched the American stroll out of the tent into the snowy night. Perhaps, then, Ivan was the one to blame…

"Flight 123 to Bangkok, Thailand, service to Moscow, Russia, now boarding all first-class passengers," a voice called. Ivan was thankful that the announcement had interrupted his dark thoughts. He abandoned his barely-eaten breakfast, shrugged on his backpack, and crossed over to his terminal. He shuffled into line while the first-class passengers boarded the plane, and then handed the employee his boarding pass and his passport when his row was called.

As the plane took off and rocketed into the sky, Ivan felt nothing but numbness. It was as though a hole had been torn inside him, and for a brief period, it had hurt intensely. But at least for now, the pain had stopped and left him feeling empty inside. He watched without emotion as the plane rose among white, puffy clouds into a surprisingly clear blue sky, free from the snowstorms that had tormented it in previous days. Then, all at once, the numbness vanished when Everest came into view. The behemoth of a mountain looked smaller now that the airplane soared a thousand feet above its summit, but Ivan knew better than to underestimate its size or strength. As he watched the jagged mass of rock, ice, and snow, all he could think was that Alfred's body was on the mountain somewhere, frozen to the core from the cold, frozen in place and time, probably for the rest of eternity. Some climber twenty or thirty years from now might be trekking through the Western Cwm, the small valley into which Alfred may have fallen, and stumble across a surprisingly handsome golden-haired corpse, encased in ice, expression still stunned as if he'd just tumbled off the mountain.

The thought was more than Ivan could handle. As tears slickened the Russian's eyes, he pulled the shutter down on the window, blocking the mountain from view. It didn't help, though. It didn't block the mountain into nonexistence. It didn't erase the reality of all that had happened on the expedition. It didn't make Ivan forget Alfred's absence. He bit his lip, inhaled deeply, and sniffled back the tears. He couldn't cry here, on the airplane, surrounded by strangers who might not even speak English. It was one thing to let Francis pat his shoulders as he sobbed. But it would wound his pride too much to have the passenger seated next to him stare at him as tears ran down his cheeks. Instead, he pulled his headphones out of his backpack, put on some traditional Russian music, and tried to think of nothing but home.

But even in thoughts of home, Ivan could not entirely find peace. He had two sisters who'd want to smother him the second his plane touched down in Moscow – sisters who would follow him around, ask him questions about the expedition. Would he tell them about Alfred? Would he have to? It was no secret that his father couldn't handle the fact that Ivan was gay, but Natalia wasn't exactly a fan either. Maybe that was because there was a small part of his younger sister that always wanted Ivan for herself. And Katyusha – she seemed as though she was okay with it, but was she really? The thoughts made Ivan's head spin and ache.

The majority of the flight into Thailand passed by in a haze. Hours bled together, indistinguishable from one another, into a mess of lost time. Ivan closed his eyes and started to doze off, but never really slept. Strange thoughts and half-dreams floated in and out of his mind. He saw Toris, wide-eyed and horrified, being tossed around by his father. His mind filled in the details of Alfred's tumble off the mountain – the American's yelp in surprise, his desperate scramble to plunge his ice axe and crampons into the nearest solid object, and finally, his disappearance into the blackness. Ivan's eyes slid open languidly just in time to catch the stewardess leaning over to ask him if he wanted anything. He asked for some hot tea, hoping that it would calm his nerves a little. He sipped at it slowly, stretching out the longevity of the hot liquid in the Styrofoam cup for almost twenty minutes before he leaned back in his seat again, too distracted to read or watch the end of the in-flight movie.

Change planes in Thailand. Ivan trudged off the plane and into the Bangkok airport, and instantly, a whole new set of dialects assaulted his ears. The tinge of the Thai language was just different enough from the Nepali, Hindi, and Sherpa dialects he'd heard in Kathmandu to mess with his head. Chatter in tongues he couldn't understand flurried all around him. Again, he couldn't make himself eat. Somehow, he didn't mind much. The layover lasted only an hour and a half before he had to board the plane again – a short layover by typical airline standards. The flight to Moscow felt much the same as the flight to Bangkok. Only this time, as he again made his way off the plane and into the airport, he heard the sounds of the Russian language floating sweetly in the air. He could read the Cyrillic characters on the signs. He was home at last.

It was nearly eight at night, though Ivan suspected it would be almost eleven in Germany before Feliciano and Ludwig arrived at the Berlin airport. He didn't envy them for the extra four hours they'd have to spend in airports and on planes. After Ivan collected his bags, he wandered downstairs and found Katyusha and Natalia waiting for him. It was too expensive to pay to park his car at the airport for two months, so his sisters would drive him home. "Brother!" Natalia shrieked. She raced toward him and flung his arms around him. Though the youngest Braginsky wasn't big enough to throw him off balance, he found himself grunt a little at the impact of her body against his. He wrapped an arm limply around her and sighed as she squeezed him.

"Natalia," Katyusha scolded gently. "Go easy on him. He's probably tired." Reluctantly, Natalia peeled her arms away from Ivan's body and retreated. Ivan mouthed a silent _spasiba_ as Katyusha stepped forward to pull him into a gentle hug. Without another word, the three of them made their way to Katyusha's car. Ivan slumped into the passenger seat next to his older sister and pressed his face against the cool glass. Even in late May, the Moscow night air was pleasantly cool. For the second time that day, Ivan tried to sleep, but again, sleep eluded him. As they drove through the city, the first lights of night started to illuminate buildings. In the distance, he could barely see the spires of St. Basil's Cathedral, glowing against the darkening sky. That was a happy sight. Instead of glancing up and staring into the Himalayas, for once he could glance up and stare into buildings he had grown to love for their happy, bright colors ever since he was a little boy.

"So, how was Everest?" Natalia probed eagerly.

"I don't want to talk about it right now," Ivan mumbled. "Too tired." _Too sad_ was probably a more accurate statement.

"You've been gone for two months, and you don't want to talk to us?" Natalia whined.

"Natalia!" Ivan barked, but then he realized he was too weary and melancholy to shout or argue. "You know what I will do? I will come over to visit both of you tomorrow, and I will tell you all about it. Right now, I just want to go home and sleep. Does that satisfy you?"

Natalia mumbled an impetuous "_da_" before she let the three of them continue in silence to Ivan's apartment. He kissed both sisters on the cheek, climbed out of the car with his suitcases and backpack, dragged himself up the stairs, and unlocked the door to his apartment. As soon as he made his way into the apartment, he dumped his luggage in a messy pile by the door and flopped into bed with his clothes on. Only then was he able to slip into slumber.

* * *

Bright light assaulted Ivan's eyes the next morning. He rolled over and stared at the clock. 10:46 a.m. He groaned as he realized he'd slept for just over twelve hours. After Ivan had grown accustomed to curling up with Alfred at night, it was difficult to go back to sleeping alone, so he hadn't slept well since summit day. Half a day of sleep was just the cure he'd needed. Yet somehow, he didn't feel like moving or doing anything at all. So he didn't get up. Instead, he lay motionless in bed, staring at the ceiling and twisting the ends of his scarf around his finger. Hours slipped away. Alfred's face kept running through his mind. How had he let himself get attached to someone so easily? How could he have been so foolish? It had only gotten him hurt in the past, so why should the American have been any different? Alfred had promised him the future would be better, but in a way, it was worse. It was easier when the men Ivan had dated had left him willingly. It hurt more to know that Alfred had truly cared about him, but had been stolen away by Everest and by his own sense of heroic pride bordering on foolishness.

Somehow, it was one in the afternoon. His stomach grumbled, and he realized he hadn't eaten a full meal in about a day. Ivan got out of bed and threw a lunch together for himself. He devoured it in minutes, and then found an unopened bottle of vodka. Before he knew what was happening, he was pouring himself glass after glass of the clear alcohol for reasons he couldn't exactly describe. Then, somehow, almost the whole bottle was gone. He couldn't remember drinking that much. He shrugged and crawled back into bed. Miraculously, he didn't feel sick – just heavy and numb again. He lay there, doing nothing. No television. No reading. The only sounds were that of traffic moving outside, and of the sad Russian tune playing on a CD in his small stereo.

That afternoon, Natalia and Katyusha called. Ivan listened to the phone ring. He let the answering machine pick up. Natalia sounded annoyed, and Katyusha sounded quiet. By the third and fourth time the two sisters called, both sounded frantic and worried. Still, he let the answering machine pick up. He didn't want to talk to them or anyone else. An hour later, there was a firm, insistent knock on his door. Ivan got up and opened the door just enough to see slivers of Natalia's and Katyusha's faces. "I _don't_ want to talk right now," he said roughly, and slammed the door. One of the two – Ivan would have bet money that it was Natalia – pounded fiercely on the door. Ivan didn't open it. He just went back to bed. Eventually, he heard footsteps, as the two presumably departed, and then silence again.

The next day was the same. Ivan didn't leave the apartment. Both sisters tried calling again. Even Ivan's mother called this time. But no one stopped by to try to visit him.

Ivan was due back at work the next day. But he ignored his responsibilities and again didn't leave the apartment. At the moment, nothing seemed to matter. The phone rang again today. He let it go to the answering machine. But then he heard a vaguely familiar voice, one so distant and surreal it seemed as though it was merely an echo from his past. He leapt up and grabbed the phone. "Toris?" He couldn't believe his ears. He thought he'd never hear from the little Lithuanian again.

"Hi, Ivan," said the small voice. Toris sounded essentially the same as he had years ago. "Look, I didn't know if you'd want me to call. But I heard on the news about Everest this year. I heard a lot of people died. I knew you were up there, so I was worried. I wanted to see if you're okay."

"I'm okay," Ivan said, "I mean, I guess."

There was a moment of silence. Then: "What do you mean, Ivan? Is everything all right?"

Before Ivan had a chance to attempt to control himself, he found himself sobbing into the phone. "No, Toris, everything is not all right," he managed to choke out. "On Everest, I met this man. Alfred. He was our guide. He was…perfect. We were together for a little while. Then, he died. He died on the mountain. And now…now…I just…don't know what to do."

"Oh, Ivan, I'm so sorry," Toris said. "You know what? I'm in Saint Petersburg right now. I stayed there after I graduated. You know what? I'm coming to see you. I'll be on the next train to Moscow."

"Toris, you don't have to…"

"Ivan, please!" Ivan had never heard Toris sound so insistent before. "This is not up for discussion. I'll be on the next train. I'll see you soon."

The sun was going down when Ivan heard a knock on the door. This time, he jumped up right away, opened the door, and found himself peering into green eyes. The last time he'd seen those eyes, they'd been wide with terror and apprehension. This time, they were soft and sympathetic. Wordlessly, Ivan threw his arms around the slight body and pulled Toris in close against his chest. Even if Toris didn't realize it, buried in that tight hug was an apology. "H-hello to you, too," Toris said with a little giggle as he struggled to return Ivan's embrace. Ivan had nearly pinned his arms against his body.

Ivan giggled a little, too. He _did_ have the tendency to hug people a little roughly, and most of the time, he didn't realize it. It was the first time since he'd parted ways with Francis, Feliciano, and Ludwig that the Russian had smiled. "Toris, it…I feel like I haven't seen you in forever," he said.

"It does feel like forever, doesn't it?" Toris said. Ivan nodded sadly. The momentary surge of joy he'd felt at the return of his long-lost friend and lover had dissipated almost instantly, and in its place, only regret. It had been _his_ fault that it felt like forever. It was _always_ his own fault, Ivan told himself. Toris must have caught Ivan's melancholy expression, because he said, "Ivan, would you like me to make you some tea?" Ivan nodded. "What about food? Have you eaten?" Ivan shook his head.

Without asking for any more permission, the Lithuanian retreated into the small kitchen and began opening shelves and drawers in an entitled manner, as if it were his own apartment. "Ivan, haven't you bought groceries?" Toris asked, finding the refrigerator and many of the shelves essentially empty.

"_Nyet,_ not since I've been back," the Russian offered sullenly.

Toris opened the freezer, humming as he studied its contents. "Frozen dough. Frozen ground pork," he mused. "Pelmeni."

Ivan settled into the couch in the adjoining room and watched the Lithuanian cook. Even at seventeen, Ivan and Toris had rarely gone out to eat – Toris had liked to cook for the two of them instead. The Russian studied the other man as his hands worked the dough and the thawing meat and realized that Toris looked almost the same as he had when they'd been in school together, just a bit older. Same slight frame, same sweet face, same brown hair that reached just past his ears, tied back when he cooked. It was good to know that, after all Ivan had gone through recently – all the rapid change – that some things had stayed the same. The sweet scent of cooking meat filled the apartment. For the first time in days, Ivan felt truly hungry.

Toris set the finished pelmeni in front of himself and Ivan at the coffee table. He got up again and returned with cups of tea. Ivan ate eagerly, taking big bites. He and Toris ate in silence, eyes meeting over their food once in a while. When the Russian had reached the last dumpling-like bite, he turned the word over in his mind. _Pelmeni._ Why did that simple, familiar word resonate so oddly in his mind? He tasted the pork and the dough. _Alfred_. He'd wanted to make these for Alfred. Again, Ivan shut his eyes and imagined. He imagined himself bent over a stove in a big, roomy American kitchen that was flooded in cheerful bright light, with the grinning, golden-haired blonde sprawled out casually on the couch. He could almost hear Alfred's voice, teasing him: "Hey babe, hurry up with those, will ya? Getting hungry, ya know?"

Ivan dropped the food in his hand. "_Alfred_," he whispered. Whatever appetite he'd had left had evaporated. Ignoring the remainder of his dinner, he curled up on the couch and hugged the little decorative pillow to his chest.

Toris froze with his fork in his hand, a bite of food halfway to his mouth. He set the silverware back on his plate, scooted over to Ivan, and ran a hand lightly along the Russian's back. "Ivan, I-I'm just so sorry," he said. "I wish I knew what I could say to make you feel better. I'm just s-sorry…"

"No, Toris, I'm the one who should be sorry!" Ivan nearly shouted. "I'm sorry. I'm just sorry. I'm sorry for everything that happened between us. I'm sorry for everything I said to you. I promised myself I'd never be like my father, but I guess I was after all." When Ivan finished speaking, he blinked in surprise at his own words. He had no idea where all of that had just come from. One moment, Alfred occupied his every thought, and the next, he was spewing random apologies that were long overdue.

In the moment of silence that followed, Ivan could tell that Toris didn't know quite what to say. The Lithuanian inhaled deeply and then replied, "Ivan, no, you're not like your father. Don't ever think that. I was wrong, too. I was wrong not to give you another chance. You know, Vanya…" It was the first time he'd heard Toris use that little nickname in years. "We don't have to do this right now. Talk about this, I mean. That's not why I came here. I came to help you feel better, not worse."

"It was sort of inevitable, though," Ivan said.

"I suppose," Toris admitted. "Well, listen…I'd like to…try this again. I mean, I'd like us to be friends again."

Ivan's gaze flicked upward from the pillow he was clutching to rest upon green eyes. "Yes, friends, we should be friends again," Ivan said with a long sigh. "But Toris, I can't date you again. I'm afraid I'd hurt you."

"Okay," Toris said. "Okay. But Vanya, I'll never abandon you like that again."

* * *

Toris stayed the night and left the following afternoon, but not before making lunch for the two of them. He had to work the next day. Ivan was sad to see him go, but glad that he once again had someone he knew he could always talk to. Ivan decided he'd go back to work tomorrow, too. He'd stayed home for four days straight now, and it was time to go out and try to rebuild his life. But for the rest of the day, he'd rest and relax.

For the rest of the evening, Ivan parked himself on the couch and watched television. He didn't care much for the programs that were on tonight, but at least it would help him forget for a little while. He flipped through channels, never able to settle on one station. The phone rang. Ivan got up to answer it, thinking it might be Toris, calling to say he'd gotten back to Saint Petersburg safely.

"_Privyet_?" Ivan said.

"Ivan?" A familiar and bright, but noticeably weakened, voice responded.

Ivan almost dropped the phone. Of all the voices he expected to hear from the other end of a phone line, this was the absolute last. Once he recovered from the dreamlike shock that accompanied that voice, an infectious, unstoppable smile crept onto his lips. "Alfred?" he whispered, unable to think of anything else to say. His heart pounded in his chest. He took a little bit of the skin on his arm and pinched it between his thumb and forefinger to literally check if he was dreaming. A little pang of pain followed. No, this was real. Breathlessly, Ivan repeated into the phone, "Alfred."

"Yeah, it's me, babe!"

Now Ivan was grinning, wide and open-mouthed. All hope was not lost. The hero was alive.


	16. Chapter 16: END NOTES

**So I didn't want to put any author's notes at the end of the last chapter, because I figured it would kind of ruin the effect. But that's the end of my fic!**

**For a while, I was debating whether or not I wanted to have Alfred come back. I was originally just going to have him be dead for good, but then I realized I didn't have the heart to do that. So I hope you all enjoyed the ending! I don't know if any of you expected that or not…**

**Also, I'm sorry I didn't inform you all ahead of time that there would be some PruAus in this fic at the end. Actually, I'm not sorry. First of all, it would ruin the surprise factor. Second of all, I actually started shipping PruAus after I started writing this fic. So I'm shamelessly promoting my newest OTP through that little scene there. Don't like it? Too bad.**

**Last but certainly not least, thank you ALL for reading and reviewing my first-ever fanfic. I hope you all enjoyed it and that you learned a little something about Mt. Everest. In fact, you probably learned more about Mt. Everest than you ever wanted or needed to know, so I hope the facts didn't bog you down too much.**

**Stay tuned for the continuation of my RusAme Hogwarts AU. Once I'm done with that, I'll be writing a multi-chapter PruAus AU, because I need to write a fic that focuses on my gorgeous OTP babies :D**

**Oh, but I will be updating less frequently from now on, because I'll be returning to my university for the fall semester. Classes start on the 27****th****. Which is sad because I'll have less time to write fics, but happy because I'll see all my friends again and can start taking Russian classes! I think you should be able to expect updates from me every 1-2 weeks, if things go well. **

**Thanks again everyone!**


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